


This Taste of Shadow

by Mira_Jade



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: . . . just saying, . . . other times not so much, . . . you're welcome, Because everyone needs a Tolkien drabble collection, Blink and you'll miss it shipping, Boys Will Be Boys, Drabbles & Ficlets, Elf-Mortal Relationships, Family Dynamics, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I say 'ficlets' but a good deal of these hit a 10k word count, Marital fluff, Moving On, Multi, Romance, Siblings, Sometimes everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, Songs and Spells, Sunderings and reunions, The House of Finwë - putting the fun in dysfunctional since before the Sun and Moon, The moments the songs and legends don't include, This really should be renamed 'The Most Excellent Adventures of Caranthir and Haleth'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 96
Words: 450,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When Shadow returned to Arda marred, it fell upon a land long accustomed to living beneath a veil of darkness. The light of its people was never one so easily dimmed, you see</i> . . . A collection of ficlets and drabbles.</p><p>Next up: The survivors of Doriath, and the spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Index

**Author's Note:**

> Hello once again, dear readers! This latest venture of mine is a collection of ficlets - vignettes and fixed-length drabbles - set within the timeframe of the _Silmarillion_. Once or twice these may dip into _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_ , but these are primarily about the early days. I have a long list of prompts I am working from - 600 of them, to be exact, but I do not expect to reach them all ;) - all of which I am writing as warm-ups before working on my original novel. So, expect anyone and everything doing anything and everything. I will update the tags as I go, as well, to make for easier reading - especially for those of you who are searching for something in particular.
> 
> That said, I welcome any who look to follow where these drivels lead, and I hope you enjoy my humble foray into Tolkien's truly breathtaking world. :)

  
  
Here, for your reading pleasure we have . . .

  
**01\. The One, The Almighty, aka The Table of Contents**

 **02\. “things, once seen”** || Indis  & Finarfin & Galadriel - Finarfin learns the Sight from Indis. Years, later, Celebrían sails, and Galadriel entreats her father for her daughter's warm welcome in Aman.

 **03\. “a stone upon stones”** || Fingon  & Maedhros - Maedhros teaches Fingon the sword in Aman. Years later, Fingon helps him recover his skills with one hand.

 **04\. “lost as in a whisper”** || Aredhel  & Fingon - On the Ice, something is different about her brother. Something is missing.

 **05\. “the song enchantments sing”** || Elu Thingol/Melian - Snapshots of a legendary romance.

 **06\. “the gap between bones”** || Elrond  & Elros - In Númenor, with Elros' ever growing family, the twins make light of the impending doom of Elros' mortality.

 **07\. “to hold the sun”** || Finarfin  & Fëanor & Fingolfin - Finarfin is too young to understand why Fëanor does not view him as a brother. Fingolfin explains, in part.

 **08\. “in sickness, in health”** || Beren/Lúthien - Lúthien experiences a downside of mortality.

 **09\. “by any other name”** || Celeborn/Galadriel - Snapshots of their early days, in Doriath.  
  
**10\. "from the tender earth"** || Haleth/Caranthir - Their first meeting.  
  
**11\. "measured by many branches"** || Glorfindel - The many winters of his life, from the First Age to the Fourth.

 **12\. "so there will be no forgetting"** || Bilbo  & Glorfindel & Thorin - Swords and their stories.

 **13\. "so sweetly pressed"** || Turgon  & Idril - Idril considers Tuor's suit, and Turgon gives his blessing.  
   
**14\. "we bit as the fire bites"** || Maglor & Maedhros - Snapshots of their Oath and it's repercussions.

 **15\. "as stars are startled by the dawn"** || Eärendil/Elwing - He makes the ghosts quiet.

 **16\. "the work of two hands"** || Fingon  & Maedhros - A second start, in the Fourth Age.

 **17\. "had we but world enough, and time"** || Galadriel/Celeborn  & Celebrían || Eärendil/Elwing & Elrond - Sunderings and reunions.  
  
**18\. "when you fall, you fall in flames"** || Sauron  & Melkor & Thuringwethil - His fall and many names.  
  
**19\. "for ashes, from ashes"** || Finwë/Indis - A tenative first step. || Findis - The difference between a half-brother and a full-brother. || Nerdanel/Fëanor - A beginning, in more ways than one.  
  
**20\. "who touches the pupil of my eye"** || Aulë/Yavanna  & Saruman - After Sauron's betrayal. || Námo/Vairë - The first death in the world. || Elu Thingol/Melian -  The concept of family is explained to one who has always been a spirit. || Námo & Lúthien - Her song and Death's decision. || Aulë & Nerdanel - A shared grief.    
  
**21\. "I have filled this void with things unreal"** || Celegorm/Lúthien (Celegorm/Aredhel, Lúthien/Beren) - In Nargothrond, Lúthien tries to understand her captor, and Celegorm faces his past.  
  
**22\. "in distant dark places"** || Aredhel/Eöl - She was not wholly unwilling.  
  
**23\. "we choose our flesh over bones"** || Turgon  & Fingon & Maedhros - Turgon, still grieving from his wife's death, looks on Maedhros' rescue with less than kind eyes.  
  
**24\. "bellowing in the bones"** || Thorin  & Frerin & Dís - During a youthful escapade in Erebor, the siblings encounter the First of the Seven Rings.  
  
**25\. "shadows you wish to own"** || Aredhel/Eöl - She was not used to sharing a bed.  
  
**26\. "made for whispers"** || Celeborn/Galadriel - Celeborn learns about the First Kinslaying, and Galadriel exorcises a ghost from her past.  
  
**27\. "from step to step"** || Maedhros  & Elros - Elros has a case of hero worship.

 **28\. "not swallowed in the sea"** || Finarfin  & Olwë - After the First Kinslaying.

 **29\. "come home with a smooth, round stone"** || Maedhros - In the Fourth Age, he returns to Alqualondë.  
  
**30\. "given to the winter"** || Lúthien  & Celegorm - In Nargothrond, Lúthien reflects on her captor, and thinks of what could have been.

 **31\. "my head is bloodied, but unbowed"** || Caranthir/Haleth - He tells her of the First Kinslaying. || Caranthir  & Celegorm & Maedhros - While planning the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, tempers flare, and Celegorm swears vengeance against Doriath. || Caranthir & Celegorm - The Second Kinslaying, and all that entails.  
  
**32\. "once and future"** || Maedhros  & Elrond - The boy sees things Maedhros would rather him not. || Elrond & Elros - They realize their parents are never coming back for them. || Maglor & Maedhros - As the twins grow, their guardians realize that there is only so much they can teach them in their care.  
  
**33\. "so beats the heart"** || Anairë/Fingolfin - Their reunion after his rembodiment.  
  
**34\. "should we teach eyes to blink, bones to disappear"** || Caranthir/Haleth - After searching Thargelion for her straggling kin, they stop at Lake Helevorn, where prejudices are faced and realizations are made.  
  
**35\. "rendering death and forever with each breathing"** || Beren/Lúthien, Elwing/Eärendil, Idril/Tuor - The soul resides in the heart, not within its cage of aging flesh.  
  
**36\. "through to the heart"** || Celegorm  & Aredhel - In Aman, their friendship is made and tested.  
  
**37\. "songs from twilight"** || Ensemble Doriathrim - Thirty drabbles from Doriath, from rise to fall.  
  
**38\. "moving swiftly, ever on"** || Arathorn/Gilraen - There is but one inevitable end to their time together.  
  
**39\. "growing hope next to bones" I**  || Elladan & Aragorn - When Thorin Oakenshield and his Company visit the valley, young Aragorn has an adventure of his own.  
  
**40\. "growing hope next to bones" II** || Elladan  & Aragorn - While the White Council marches against Dol Guldur, Aragorn's adventure continues.   
  
**41\. "strangers in a strange land"** || Thorin  & Gilraen - During their stopover in Rivendell, Thorin finds a kindred spirit in the most unexpected of places.  
  
**42\. "thrown before fists"** || Finarfin  & Fingolfin - A young Finarfin deals with both his heritage and bullies. Fingolfin helps.  
  
**43\. "sunrise, sunset"** || Beren/Lúthien - They will not cheat death a second time.  
  
**44\. "let the water wash our souls clean"** || Isildur - Before the destruction of Nimloth, he steals a fruit from her branches. || Sauron - Before the burning of the White Tree, he reflects on faith and the master he still serves. || Tar-Míriel/Ar-Pharazôn - Even as Zimraphel, she fights in the only way she can. || Elendil - His thoughts on faith and hope as he watches his son through his recovery.   
   
**45\. "my spirit born"** || Melian  & Lúthien - She learns to be a mother.  
  
**46\. "between sky and sea"** || Elwing/Eärendil - After the Third Kinslaying, she realizes what she has left behind.  
  
**47\. "where no water flows"** || Maglor  & Maedhros & Elrond & Elros - The days following the Third Kinslaying.  
  
**48\. "on earth as it is in heaven"** || Maglor  & Eärendil - During Gil-estel's first flight, Maglor has a peculiar prayer to make. || Eärendil & Elrond & Elros - His sons did not leave the keeping of the Fëanorians willingly. || Elros & Eönwë - During the journey to Númenor, Elros finds peace from an unexpected source. || Elrond & Arwen - He did not realize the flaw in his thoughts until confronted with the simple insights of a child.   
  
**49\. "third of her name"** || Celeborn  & Arwen - She names her daughter Aranes.  
  
**50\. "the eye of the beholder"** || Thranduil/Canonical Wife - Dragon-fire takes its pound of flesh.  
  
**51\. "as little might be thought"** || Maedhros  & Fingon & Elrond - In the Fourth Age, a rehoused Maedhros finds the courage to visit his former ward. Fingon gives him a push out the door.  
  
**52\. "with thoughts of flight"** || Caranthir/Haleth - A case of denial.  
  
**53\. "into the bittersweet and strange"** || Caranthir/Haleth - Their relationship comes to a boiling point.  
  
**54\. "what we choose for fear"** || Finrod  & Lúthien - During his sister's wedding feast, Finrod unwittingly shapes the future when speaking to Lúthien of mortality and love.  
  
**55\. "how many hours I spent, reading his skin"** || Amarië/Finrod - At long last, she understands the nature of love.  
  
**56\. "nothing false and possible is love"** || Emeldir/Barahir - There was a pool in Dorthonion, rumored to show the reflection of your true love. || Beren - Years later, as a youth, he looks in that same pool. || Andreth  & Beren - Conversations about impossibilities and love, in which the future is shaped unseen.  
  
**57\. "as the fire grows"** || Thranduil/Canonical Wife  & Celeborn - Before the War of the Last Alliance.  
  
**58\. "grown but for weeds"** || Legolas  & Tauriel - While the Wise gather to discuss the shadow growing upon the Greenwood, young Legolas makes a discovery of his own.  
  
**59\. "drawn from ruin"** || Annael  & Rían/Huor - After the Fifth Battle, life begins anew for Annael.  
  
**60\. "how this, and love too, will ruin us"** || Caranthir/Haleth - Her answer to his proposal.  
  
**61\. "how the sea counts the years"** || Celebrían  & Melian - In Valinor, Celebrían learns of her daughter's choice.  
  
**62\. "put them together"** || Beren/Lúthien - He is the first one to realize she is with child.  
  
**63\. "waves, upon arriving"** || Celegorm  & Dior & Caranthir - In the years following his failed courtship with Lúthien, Celegorm cannot stay away from Tol Galen. Once, Caranthir follows.  
  
**64\. "to have and to hold"** || Caranthir/Haleth - Their first year together.  
  
**65.** **“** **remember, with fellowship and song** **”** || Bilbo  & Thorin's Company - When he returns to the Shire, he plants his acorn.  
  
**66\. "beneath such drooping boughs"** || Legolas  & Ensemble - The shadow over the Greenwood was darkening, as Legolas learns firsthand during a coming of age trial, far from his father's halls.  
  
**67\. "a veil before stars" |**  | || Melian/Elu Thingol & Ensemble (with a special appearance by Sauron) - She adjusts to the role of wife, queen, and mother.  
  
**68\. "a veil before stars" II** || Melian/Elu Thingol  & Ensemble (with a special appearance by Gandalf) - Events move onwards towards the building of Doriath.  
  
**69\. "sleep I cannot find, nor light"** || Maedhros  & Idril - Whilst recovering from Thangorodrim, Maedhros finds a helping hand.  
  
**70\. "but for pale persistence"** || Maedhros  & Elrond - The first time the child calls him father, Maedhros makes a hard decision about the fate of Eärendil's sons.  
  
**71\. "where stirs a quiet pain"** || Celeborn/Galadriel - When winter comes to Doriath, Galadriel redefines her opinion of the season, with some help from Celeborn.  
  
**72\. "but for we who remain"** || Celeborn/Galadriel  & Elwing & Eärendil - Their first winter in Sirion is given to the past as much as it is to the future.  
  
**73\. "to throw truth from mirrors"** || Thranduil  & Legolas - He explains the origin of his scars.  
  
**74\. "just so long, and long enough"** || Celebrían/Elrond - With fostering Arahael Aranarth's son, they set a tradition for all of the Chieftains of the Dúnedain to follow.  
  
**75\. "our share of night to bear"** || Thranduil/Canonical Wife  & Thráin I - While his own realm darkens even further, Thranduil visits the newly founded kingdom of Erebor for the first, where the Shadow is at work in another way.   
  
**76\. "and came my way no more"** || Curufin  & Celegorm & Celebrimbor - After Nargothrond's destruction, Curufin seeks word of his son's survival.  
  
**77\. "love will see us through our dark, dark days"** || Maglor/Canonical Wife  & Ensemble Fëanorians - He brings his wife-to-be home to meet his family.  
  
**78\. "stars hide your fires"** || Indis/Finwë/Míriel - Her pregnancy with Fëanor was not as it should be. || Nerdanel/Fëanor  & Finwë - For her complicated pregnancy with the Ambarussa, and her strained relationship with her husband, her good-father offers advice and support.  
  
**79\. "until the frost steals the bloom away"** || Caranthir/Haleth - In which Caranthir is most certainly not jealous.  
  
**80\. "lay me down to sleep"** || Fëanor  & Fingolfin - It is not their father the child seeks out at night, but him. || Fingolfin & Aredhel - There is a monster in her closet that only her father can slay.  
  
**81\. "shall chase us round and round"** || Turgon/Elenwë  & Ensemble Fingolfinians - A beginning, in Aman.  
  
**82\. "who refuse to breathe in water"** || Tuor/Idril  & Ensemble Gondolindrim - She has not swam since falling through the ice of the Helcaraxë, and yet, with Tuor . . .  
  
**83\. "I have no weapons of ocean or wood"** || Rían  & Emeldir, Finduilas/Túrin, Tar-Míriel/Amandil, Fíriel/Arvedui, Dís & Thorin - Snippets of a woman's strength.    
  
**84\. "I will not take from you, and you will not owe"** || Glorfindel  & Ensemble - His two lifetimes spent in service to the House of Turgon.  
  
**85\. "these were your loves, your victims"** || Maglor/Canonical Wife  & Ensemble Fëanorians - They settle into exile in Formenos.  
  
**86\. "something without a name"** || Indis/Finwë/Míriel  & Ensemble - The early days of Finwë's family.  
  
**87\. "with those who favour fire"** || Ensemble Finwions - The House of Finwë during the Years of the Trees, in drabble form.  
  
**88\. "whose home is timelessness"** || Elrond/Celebrían  & Ensemble - Drabbles from Rivendell.  
  
**89\. "where time comes in waves"** || Ensemble Gondolindrim - Drabbles from Gondolin.  
  
**90\. "to fall from depth to depth of air"** || Eärendil/Elwing, Celeborn/Galadriel, Idril/Tuor  & Ensemble - Drabbles from Sirion.   
  
**91\. "we have drank each other thirsty"** || Caranthir/Haleth - Some days, it is easy to forget her mortality. On other days, however, such as when her visiting Lake Helevorn coincides with many Princes of the Noldor being present . . .  
  
**92\. "tale as old as time"** || Éowyn  & Ensemble - Éowyn, and a history of tales.  
  
**93\. "chance may crown me"** || Maedhros  & Fingon - Before Fingon's coronation.  
  
**94\. "through your time"** || Caranthir/Haleth - In which she may, or may have not, inadvertently poisoned him.

 **95\. "the agony and the ecstasy"** || Curufin/Canonical Wife - There was an attraction between them, of a sort.  
  
 **96\. "blooming you shall always be"** || Galadriel/Celeborn, Celebrimbor  & Elwing, Thranduil & Galadriel - The survivors of Doriath, and the spring. 


	2. "things, once seen"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finarfin and Indis || Prompt: _Wall_  
>  Galadriel and Finarfin || Prompt: _Bridge_

**Wall**

The Sea was an impassible distance between them. It was a wall he could not climb; with waves standing as brick and the tides as mortar. And it stretched so far . . .

Though Tirion was locked by land, surrounded by golden stretches of fields and embraced by copses of green leafed trees, Arafinwë imagined that he could hear the waves as they brushed upon Eastern shores of Endórë beyond. He imagined that he could see the infant sun as it set over the straight blue horizon of Middle-earth; he imagined that he could hear the gulls in his ears; that he could feel the pulse of the tide, ever calling him home, in his heart.

 _She has arrived_ , the knowledge reverberated in his mind, settling deep within marrow and bone. With the knowledge, his pulse quickened; he could not quell its frantic beat.

"Artanis," Arafinwë whispered his daughter's name to the wind, as if she could hear him from such a distance and knew comfort from his voice. He closed his eyes, imagining each of his sons in their turn before looking up again. His children had survived the crossing, and they now walked a shadowed land, rife with hardships and dangers untold. They walked where he could not see . . . see naught but glimpses, as intangible and substantial as mist. He looked with his second set of eyes, and could see Artanis' eyes trained unmovingly ahead, looking at the wood just past the seashore. He looked, and saw Ingoldo's smile. He glimpsed Angaráto as he splashed Aikanáro in the surf.

His hands fisted as he tried to seize the visions, as he tried to make them last. But those stolen glances were not enough; not ever.

Time passed, much time before the atmosphere in both Tirion and Alqualondë allowed the new King of the Noldor to journey north to Oiolossë. But journey eventually he did, seeking out Ingwë's house and walking the familiar halls to the compound of rooms his mother and sister shared.

Centuries had passed since he was a small boy running with mischief in mind and trailing giggles behind him, and yet Arafinwë still felt small beneath the arch of Indis' stare when she rose to greet him. He bowed low and kissed the back of his mother's hand, even though she wore her crown not, and had been far from Finwë's side even before his death at the Dark One's hands. The young sun was setting beyond them, painting the former queen's face with a warm, golden light. Once was, there had been a time when he looked on her and saw only a beauty too great for words; an empyreal sort of loveliness, nearly too ethereal to touch. Now, he could see only weariness on Indis' face. Her flesh seemed to be parchment about her bones, as a paper lampshade, letting the light shine through her rather than upon her. There were times, since her husband's death, when she did not look quite real before his eyes. Aman had darkened around her, and she had not yet found her light again.

"They arrived," he whispered his news, taking her hand in his own once they both were seated. Indis looked, not at him, but out through the open windows behind him. The room had been designed with a wide and open plan – once intending to face the summit of the mountain and the light of the Trees with a reverence that only the Vanyar could truly understand. Now, it simply let in the light of the setting sun.

"I cannot tell what horrors the Ice took from them," he admitted, and with those words, his voice ached in his throat. " . . . but they arrived. They walk upon the shores of the Hither Lands, now, for better or for worse."

Over the top of his hand, his mother's fingers played. Absently, she traced nonsense patterns out over bones and skin. "And yet, you ask me a question, my son," she said at long last. Her head was tilted delicately to the side; her pale eyes knew the answer he sought, even when they did not glance his way.

"I . . ." he swallowed. Setting about him, the new light was too warm. It was too bright. He blinked, and saw Shadow across the Sea. "I saw . . . I could see bits and pieces when I Looked, but only just . . . Once, you offered to teach me your gift, and yet I scorned it . . . for what need was there of the Sight in these hallowed lands, in these lands of peace and light? And yet . . . now the light has been destroyed and created anew. Now . . ."

"Now, those you love travel past where you can see," Indis finished gravely. Her eyes still searched beyond the view of her balcony, as if she could see into Mandos' dark halls and beyond.

He did not fight the twisting he felt in his lungs at her words. He had no need to. "Yes," he breathed simply. And he waited for her answer.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. When Indis squeezed his hands, the color of her eyes was darker. For the first time since his father's death - since his departure north to share in his firstborn son's exile, even - she looked real before him. She looked tangible enough to touch.

"I shall teach you, my son," she inclined her head in answer. Her grip about his hands was strong, and he returned the pressure as if she were a lifeline in turbulent waters. "And then, together, we shall see what we shall see."  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Bridge**

The waves lapped gently against the rocks of the coastline below.

Alone, Galadriel knelt in the long grass that grew atop the cliffs overlooking the harbor of the Grey Haven. This close to the Sea, the song within her soul sounded with a feverish beat, pulling her towards what she could feel in the distance, ever calling her home. Though she yearned, she could not yet give into its siren's call . . . she could not, not with the Shadow that was still growing behind her, stretching unquietly from the East. No one accompanied her as she a moment to work through her grief alone. All in her family hurt that day, with the grief of sundering pulling upon their spirits as a whole, but in that moment, she preferred her solitude. She needed . . .

She took in a deep breath, centering herself. Against their bond, she felt Celeborn's gentle touch as it turned in concern, but she waved him away after from her mind after assuring him that she was well. As well as she could be, at least. A matching pain bit at his own soul, and she filled their bond with warmth . . . with _peace_ as best she could. After so many centuries together, she could not quite tell where one's strength began and ended from aiding the other, and she had no wish to truly know. Instead, she was merely grateful that he was there for her to lean upon, just as she was content in also being the roots that supported his branches through the latest storm they endured.

When she looked below, that thought in mind, she could see her husband's silver head amongst the Falathri workers milling on the docks. Celeborn was keeping their grandsons busy, she knew, not giving them a moment in which to think about their grief. Elladan and Elrohir were nothing but strife and discord in their bones with their mother's passing into the west, and even across the distance their hate and anger tugged on her spirit with a rabid fervency. They wore their guilt as a cloak of fury, even though all had assured them that they were not to blame – even Celebrían herself had whispered such words of absolution when she had the lucidity to do so, but still their hearts knew pain, and Galadriel feared . . .

When she swallowed, she did so around a stone. She looked away from her grandsons, seeking out the empty dock where Celebrían's ship had been berthed not even an hour ago. On the edge of the dock, Arwen stood unmoving in her father's shadow. As close to Elrond as the twins had been with their mother, she had scarce left his side since the grey ship had disappeared over the horizon. Galadriel reached out with her senses, intent on buoying the younger elf's spirit, but Arwen looked up first. Though her eyes were heavy with grief, she reached out with a comfort of her own before she could be given comfort in her turn, and Galadriel felt her heart twist as she accepted the gift her granddaughter gave. The young one was a bulwark in her family's storm, and for her, Galadriel was more grateful than words could properly say. At Arwen's side, Elrond had not even blinked at the interchanging of power; he noticed not of Arwen's hand about his own, nor did he acknowledge Galadriel's searching presence at his mind. Instead, he was unblinking as he stared at the horizon beyond. Galadriel felt, and knew that he was clinging to his bond with his wife, unwilling to let her go until the Straight Road tore her forcibly from him, and he could feel her no more.

She looked, and felt a fresh stab of pain for how her goodson appeared to be years older than any Elf had a right to be – recalling then how he had poured nearly the entirety of his fëa into Celebrían's soul in his desperation to heal her. He had been pulled away by force, with Glorfindel and Mithrandir ending the connection only before he gave everything in his desperation to heal his mate. Even for all of his efforts – for all of her own efforts, and Mithrandir's too – they had only been able to heal her daughter's body. Her mind . . . Celebrían's fëa was fractured and torn, and nothing but the Uttermost West and the grace of Estë and Irmo in Lórien would heal what was so grievously broken.

Her daughter sailed West, and now Galadriel mourned the loss of what was once a part of her body, born of her soul, so much so that she . . .

. . . she took in a deep breath before letting it out again. Above her, the twilit sky was darkening, with Varda's stars winking into view to bathe the land in their light as they had since times long gone by. There, unseen upon the horizon, Galadriel looked, and thought to see a light even greater than they. She could see . . .

As she had not in centuries, she opened her mind to the part of her fëa that was still bound to her parents – to Arafinwë and Eärwen, each reigning over bright Tirion in hallowed Aman beyond. Though the Sea laid between them – pale in comparison to her own stubborn pride and blatant refusal to take the pardon the Valar offered, for she had committed no crime to warrant such a _gracious_ forgiveness - she looked with another set of eyes. She looked with the eyes of her Sight, and saw . . .

_. . . Arafinwë's surprised gaze . . . grey-blue eyes, just like her own, blinking and widening . . . a breath held . . . her father placing down both quill and parchment so that he could grasp the connection she sought and flame it higher . . ._

_Artanis?_ She felt, more than heard, his voice whisper across her mind. Though she would admit it not, the merest touch of their minds turned all of her great strength to dust before the wind. Brokenly, she leaned into his mental presence like a sapling finding its roots in a storm. She did not fully comprehend the true weight of her own grief until opening herself up to her father's soul, and now . . .

She felt warmth and love consume her as Arafinwë filled her with a peace of spirit – and all of her fears about her parent's anger . . . their anger and their _disappointment . . ._  faded when she felt love instead . . . when she felt a concern so strong that it rippled across her soul, even across so great the distance between them.

 _Child?_ he whispered again, as if fearful of her answer, _What is it? What is this burden that swallows you?_ She could feel him search against her mind, a lifetime of dark deeds and even darker hours having taught him to expect the worst, until she opened her thoughts to let him see . . .

"Atar," Galadriel whispered her reply to the wind. Her voice was a choked, hoarse sound from her mouth. "What I treasure most in this world comes to you, and I cannot yet follow where she goes. I would ask . . . nay, I would _beg_ of you to . . ."

 _Cherish her_ , she let her spirit ask what her mouth could not say. _Give her a home while she is sundered from all that she has loved and held dear . . . Give her love, in my stead, until . . ._

 _. . . until I too can return home_ , she finally admitted the desire of her heart in her mind, and she felt her father turn as such a light in her mind . . . such a warmth against the darkness.

When she opened her eyes, the connection broken, she looked westward again. This time, she did not have to strain her eyes to see: Aman was as a light on the horizon, a harkening promise against a serene backdrop of sky and sea. She looked, and she could feel the light as it grew even warmer still.

 _Not yet_ , she thought as she turned from the song of the sea. But someday, she knew . . . someday soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Ingoldo** : Finrod  
>  **Aikanáro** : Aegnor  
>  **Angaráto** : Angrod  
>  **Mithrandir** : Gandalf  
>  **Fëa** : Quenya for 'soul'.  
>  **Oiolossë** : The Vanyar's name for Taniquetil
> 
> Last Edited: 9/16/16


	3. "a stone upon stones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Maedhros || Prompt: _Architect_

**Architect**

As with every building, there was a first stone laid. One, and then the next.

"You know the sword," Findekáno said one afternoon, his voice clear in the silence that had previously defined his corner of Tirion's royal library. It was not a question, but rather an observation spoken as fact. His cousin was a quiet child as a whole, Maitimo had long observed, with his wide eyes taking in everything around him in silence before speaking with soft certainty. What had at first been an oddity when compared to his family of live flames was now a comfort to Maitimo, and he enjoyed seeing Findekáno gain his confidence with each passing season. Bemused, he looked up from his work to frankly stare at the younger boy, a red brow raised in a question of his own.

"There is no need to learn such a skill in blissful Aman," he replied neutrally, already well knowing what Findekáno's father would have to say on the matter. In that dynamic, Maitimo would meddle not.   
  
At his answer, Findekáno played absently with the quill in his hands. His letters were already neat and precise across the parchment, and sooner than he would like, Maitimo knew that he would have nothing more he could teach him.

"Yet, your father teaches you, regardless?" Findekáno pressed.

"Some are not as content with the stillness of these lands as others," Maitimo replied evenly. Even though not expressly forbidden, many looked on the art of steel with critical eyes. But his answer was only half where the other ever trusted hearing the whole from him; he found that he did not care for the not-truth on his lips. "Yes," he answered frankly. "My father has taught me the sword."

"My atar," Findekáno was wont to speak even more softly when his words were about his family. Maitimo looked, and wondered how the fire of Finwë could be as smoke in the eyes of the child before him. "My atar says that such skills are needless, here away from the lands of our Awakening. He says that they are an insult to the peace that the Valar provide."

"And what do you think?" Maitimo asked carefully. Findekáno pressed the tip of his quill to his mouth as he considered his reply.

"I think that my father keeps one of grandfather's swords above his desk; one from the Great Journey, stained with the blood of Dark Vala's creatures in the earliest of days. I think that he keeps it there to remember. I know, too, that he practices when he thinks that none can see. And, I . . ."

Maitimo waited, expectant. He knew what the child would ask next, and, for some reason he could not quite define within his heart, the request made him uneasy. Three brothers already - and his parents already intent on another - and he had so far helped them all wrap small hands around sword hilts. And yet . . . There was something different about this, he felt with a wisp of knowing; a path split here before him, and to walk it . . .

"Will you teach me?" Findekáno finally asked. His words were frank and abrupt, the hesitation gone from his voice once his decision was made. He stared, looking him squarely in the eye as he put his longing out, stark and whole, between them. Maitimo looked, and imagined that he could see, _there_ . . .

 . . . _Finwë's fire_ , he thought. He found himself nodding his assent even before he made the conscious decision to do so, the road now chosen before him. "Yes, Káno," his reply was softer than he first intended it to be. "I will teach you."  
  
  
.

.

Findekáno bruised. It was the way of the sword - of life, in truth - and yet Maitimo watched the child pull himself up from the dust each and every time he was knocked down, no matter how much his body ached and his arms trembled. Maitimo watched him with pride filling the marrow of his bones; with affection defining the soft places about his heart.

Later, when the battle-fever had worn down to nothing, and each pain was felt ten-fold from their infliction, he sought the boy out to make sure that none of his wounds had settled too deeply.

"You will heal," he gave his diagnosis as the boy picked at the new calluses he was developing on the palms of his hands. "For now, each mark merely shows where a lesson was learned. A stone here," he touched a scrape on Findekáno's cheek, "and a stone here," next he touched a bruise on his arm, purple and angry, "and you shall have a tower built before you in no time at all."

"For now," Findekáno muttered, biting his tongue, "it just hurts."

Maitimo could not help himself. He smiled. "Aye, for now it hurts." He pressed playfully at the bruise, and the child made a face before swatting his hand away. "But that too will see a wall of its own built."  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
  
  
He felt as a strong tower torn from its cornerstone in those first few months after being proclaimed strong enough to move from his bed. He was a ruin of a fortress, with once strong stones turned to dust and its mortar to ash on the wind. The foundation was still there – his body remembered how to move, how to fight, of course . . . but it was now missing a crucial piece. He was no longer whole.

Maedhros had to remember to fight with his left hand rather than his right; he could not block and give a blow at once now, it was one and then the other. He could not use two hands to lend weight to his thrusts, his strength had to come from his arm and shoulder now, and the difference in technique was almost too much to bear. His body was a shell of his former strength - the loss of his hand aside. He had gone too long without food and water and movement during his imprisonment, and that was the kindest of his injuries. White lines criss-crossed his skin, telling tales of Morgoth's torments – each one more and more creative than the last when he refused to give the Dark One the reaction he sought - leaving his body as a map of pain and ruin. There were times when he did not care to bring it into the light of day; there were times when the daylight burned, away from the shadows of the north; sometimes, even worse than that, he blinked and imagined that he was back _there_ , and he _could not_ -

 . . . sometimes, he could only think that it would have been easier if Fingon had put his sword through his heart, rather than through the skin and bone of his wrist. Sometimes, he thought . . .

But Maedhros had no time to think then, because Fingon was attacking, stepping to the left but striking from the right - and like a fool he fell for it. Instead of cutting with the blade, Fingon slapped his shoulder with the flat of his sword. He did not pull his strength, and Maedhros stumbled before taking a knee on the ground, his balance lost.

"Even Idril could have blocked that – and that is an insult to the lady," Fingon raised a dark brow in disapproval. He circled his cousin's spot on the ground, casting shadows as he turned. "Turvo's daughter is a terribly fast little thing, and she delights in reminding all of it."

"I taught you that feint, years ago," Maedhros muttered darkly. "My body remembers, but it is slow to answer as I bid." His breath worked too quickly to give air to his lungs. His blood pounded, not from the fight, but from fatigue. Maedhros felt his top lip draw back from his teeth, disgusted as he was with himself.

Finwë's fire was he, and all that flame had served was to keep him amongst the living - and only that just barely. He had survived, and yet, what right did he even have to that? What right did he have to _endure_ when so many others had . . .

. . . but no. He squeezed his eyes closed; he forced his heart to calm. The troublesome organ still raced in his chest, however, and its frenetic pace was wearying.

A shadow fell before his eyes as Fingon came to a stop in front of him. The sunlight glittered off the lake behind them; Maedhros could see the light as bright splashes of colour behind the dark of his eyes. For a moment, Fingon blocked the sun, and Maedhros opened his eyes to see that the other had knelt in front of him. There was concern in his eyes – his pale grey eyes, the same as his own – and Maedhros looked away. As his eyes moved down, he caught glimpse of the gold braided into his hair. Fingon had not worn it as such when he had rescued him from Thangorodrim, that much Maedhros remembered. But, now . . .

He swallowed, and his throat ached. He did not deserve such a token, he thought distantly. Such a mark of affection. How could he, when . . .

"A stone here," Fingon whispered, and then Maedhros felt his cousin's callused fingertips as they traced the hollow line of his cheek, much too thin as it was. "And then a stone here," Fingon's sword hand trailed a gentle caress around the ruined stump of his right arm. It was the first time anyone beyond a healer had touched him so – even Maedhros ignored that new part of his body with a childish determination, as if by pretending that it did not exist, he could make it so. The newly grown nerve endings trembled, unused to the sensation of touch as they were. "And soon," Fingon let his hand fall away, "a tower shall be built."

A moment passed, one and then two. Maedhros swallowed, looking from the light on the lake and the gold twinkling teasingly in the black braids before him. He let his gaze rest anywhere but on Fingon's eyes.

"Valiant, they call you," Maedhros finally said. His words were soft, given beneath his breath. "Better had you taken the title of Wise instead."

"There are others better suited to the spouting of inspired phrases," Fingon gave drolly. Maedhros could hear the smile in his voice as he rose gracefully to his feet. "Better am I with repeating things once heard."

Slowly, Maedhros followed Fingon's lead. He picked up his sword once more, the muscles in his arm weak as he made a fist of his fingers about the hilt. But they were strengthening, even he could feel that much. The abused muscles and tired bones ached . . . but it was an ache that healed. It was an ache that promised growth, if he let it.

"Now then, Russandol," Fingon saluted him, a playful ease to his movements as his steel caught the sun. "About that tower . . ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Russandol** : An endearment meaning 'copper-top'. Another name for Maedhros.
> 
> Edited: 9/16/16


	4. "lost as in a whisper"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel & Fingon || Prompt: _Different_

**Different**

She had not known that it was possible to be this cold.

Before the Helcaraxë, Irissë knew of snow, but only ever on the glittering white slopes of Taniquetil. She remembered playing at her great-uncle Ingwë's house as a child, lying on the snow-covered ground and creating winged creatures with her arms and legs before rising to pelt her brothers with balls of the cold white powder. She remembered how Turukáno's face would turn in mock annoyance as he brushed his clothes dry; how Findekáno would scowl in mock outrage before returning her attacks with those of his own - pelting her retreating back with snowballs before dropping her into the snowbank on the side of the path, she screaming out her laughter all the while their elders watched them with smiles on their faces.

Now, Irissë could not remember how she had ever been delighted by the cold. Now she only knew the tightness of her stomach, groaning in hunger and in thirst. Her skin stung from where it was stretched across her bones, made thin and brittle where it was exposed to the cold around her. She could not feel her fingers or her toes, but she was fortunate that she had not yet developed the bite of frost that had already taken so much from so many. She was bone-weary, nearly paralyzed by the cold; she was in pain for the want of her stomach; but she did not fall in her path as others walked over her still form, leaving her to freeze in their wake. Her blood still beat through her veins, and though its pulse was slow it was enough to let her know that she was alive. She was _alive_. Alive as . . .

She swallowed, looking ahead to where Turukáno's gait was slow and stunned at the head of their host. At his side, even cheerful Itarillë was quiet, her small and pale face drawn with her grief. Strangely, though she was only a child, the Ice affected her the least in a physical sense – so much so that their followers had taken to calling her Silver-foot for the ease of her passing over the frozen wasteland around them. And yet, her niece had scarce spoken two words together since her mother's death. Her bright blue eyes were haunted and numb – much too young for the tender count of her years. Irissë could feel the gaping wound in her spirit like the throbbing of a wound, and her own fëa contracted in an echoing pang ever time she looked upon her brother-daughter.

Turukáno had not wanted to come, Irissë remembered, feeling guilt rise up in her throat for her own role in persuading him. He had been pressured by all, and his wife and daughter had refused to be left behind when he made the decision to follow his father's family into the unknown. Such courage was a rarity - even her own mother had forsaken the journey at her father's side, and Anairë was far from the only one to let go both husband and child to the Hither Lands of Middle-earth. But Turukáno had pushed aside his misgivings, and now Elenwë was gone - taken by the restless ocean rolling beneath the endless Ice all around them. Now, Turukáno walked as one numb, and Írissë could not quite imagine the light ever returning to her brother's eyes as it had been before.

Irissë fisted her fingers, and found that her anger kept her stride from faltering. Her fury kept her face warm, and her _hurt_  kept feeling to the tips of her fingers.

 _Tyelkormo_ , she hissed within the confines of her mind, the mantra filling her instead of bread.  _When I cross this desolate place, so help me_ . . .

Yet, this time her thoughts were interrupted when a soft step crunched on the snow next to her. She glanced to the side, having energy for little else, and then only blinking her greeting to Findekáno. For a moment, she let her gaze linger, taking in the tight set of her eldest brother's mouth . . . the stone line of his jaw, before turning her gaze back to the endlessly white path ahead. She trained her eyes on an unseen place on the horizon, and imagined that she could see the far shore they grappled to reach.

She counted out five heartbeats, and then ten, before glancing at her brother again. Something was wrong . . . something was different, but she could not put her finger on precisely _what_ the difference was. He had been quiet since Elenwë's death, but there was now a dark cast to his eyes as he stared unblinking at the never-ending stretch of the Ice ahead. He muttered beneath his breath at times, as if rehersing what he would say if he ever . . . if her ever . . . but she closed her eyes, unable to complete her thought. She knew that look in his eyes, she thought, for it was the same look she held in her own . . . for they were the only ones amongst both Nolofinwë and Arafinwë's children to love . . .

Again the thought rest, incomplete within her mind.

After thirty heartbeats, she realized what was missing from him. The difference was so stark that she stopped, letting the crowd of bodies shoulder past her, all going on by without hardly a glance. Some muttered under their breath as they walked. Some moaned. Far in the back of their group, one or two voices tried to rise in song in defiance to the chill in the air. They never made it further than a verse before faltering.

Findekáno stopped with her, a brow raised in question. She opened her mouth once, then twice before shutting it. She could hear the cold click of her teeth as they snapped together.

"What is it, Irissë?" Findekáno asked. Even his strong voice was a whisper on the air. His breath frosted between them.

Irissë hugged her arms closer to her body. Her eyes fixed upon the black braids that peeked out from the fur-lined hood of his cloak. Their color was blank and dull. Snowflakes frosted the plaits with a layer of ice, but beneath . . .

"Your gold is gone," she said frankly. Even those few words took all of her effort to speak. It was a great task - flexing her throat and passing the breath of her lungs out as sound. She pressed her fingers together, seeking the heat of her own body to warm her.

"My hands are numb," Findekáno's explanation was simple and frank, but the delay before his answer was too long – even when attributed to the cold. She watched, and saw the way he flinched - for he was never one to hide his true emotions from those he loved. "I could not manage the plaiting," he felt the need to elaborate, "and so I did not bother."

Her brother had been a youth nearly grown at the time of her birth. As long as Irissë could remember, Findekáno had been close in friendship with Maitimo, son of Fëanáro – too close, some would say – but her brother's friendship with their half-cousin was something she had always known and accepted for what it was. It was something she could imagine no differently. She had been young, very young, at the time, but she still remembered coming across the two in the gardens behind her grandfather's home in Tirion. She remembered staring, entranced by the red, _red_ colour of Maitimo's hair, like Laurelin when her light fell at night to set the horizon aflame. She remembered wondering how the colour could grow from the head of any Elf, even as Maitimo flicked one of her brother's braids, fingering the golden thread that Findekáno had entwined there earlier.

"I had only spoken in jest," Maitimo said, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.

Her brother had shrugged, pleased with the reaction he had garnered, and at the memory she tried to remember the last time Findekáno had looked so at peace . . . so at ease. When had last he looked so . . . content in his own skin? Irissë tried to remember, but could only remember the Ice.

Now the braids were barren and black before her, and she felt . . . empty at the loss. _Tyelkormo_ , she thought again, but this time his name was as a sigh. This time it was edged in grief. _Why?_ she wondered, but even her thoughts were as whispers.

She needed to understand, she reflected numbly. She needed to _know_ . . .

She would cross this Ice if it was the last thing she did, she swore to herself. She would cross the Ice and then stare the other straight in the eye and demand her answer of him. She would take it from his _flesh_ , if need be, but until then . . .

"When we stop tonight I will help you, if you would like," Irissë offered. She meant for the words to come out strong, but they were only tired. Tired, and hollow.

"Do not worry yourself," Findekáno tried to smile, but the motion was forced. Mouths could not make such shapes on the Helcaraxë, she knew. "I have no need of such frivolities here."

"When we reach the other side, then?" she asked, taking her hands from their warm cocoon inside of her cloak to hold his – for warmth, she told herself. For neither of them truly needed the comfort. To ache would be to give _them_ a victory, and she could not . . . she _would_ not . . .

"Perhaps then, sister," Findekáno whispered, but the words were forced to her ears. "Perhaps."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Laurelin** : The Tree that was the 'sun'. Telperion, the second Tree, was the 'moon'.
> 
> Edited: 9/17/16


	5. "the songs enchantments sing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elu Thingol/Melian || Prompt: _Baby, Child, Teenager, Adult, Elderly_ , 100 word drabbles

**Baby**

She was a daughter of time's beginning, and he but a sapling to the great oak tree of her days. And yet he _listened_ like no other, letting her enchantments snare in his bones, in his very heart, the long years of the world passing them by until a whispered command said: _you must let him go._

Melian released her king, but found that she could not release herself . . . and so, when she gave him back his spirit, she gave up her own for a body of flesh and bone - vowing never to be parted from him until time's end. 

.

.

**Child**

Her daughter's birth took every last bit of strength from her, leaving her weary - for while the Valar had allowed such a union, they had blessed it not, and such a birth was unprecedented. Within her fortress of flesh, her spirit ached, even as her heart sang for Lúthien's arrival. 

"She is not a son," Melian said, grieved for knowing that she would not be able to bear a heir to her husband's throne. 

"But she is perfect," Thingol breathed, near reverent as he held his daughter for the first - their child of heaven and earth. "I could of hoped for nothing more." 

.  
.

**Teenager**

Lúthien grew to a beauty unmatched - even though one would not recognize her for the mud in her hair, the scratches on her face, lost as she had been by Doriath's border. She was returned safe and sound, full of questions and curiosity for the world beyond, but the whole encounter threw Thingol's heart into a fright - leaving Melian to sooth his fears. 

"What are you going to do when the time comes to let her go - lock her in a tower?" Melian asked, trying to jest. 

"If I have to," he answered, but his smile failed to reach his eyes. 

.  
.

**Adult**

Her years passed; her spirit grew into her body. 

Her father's winds called to her from the West, and her mother's stars glittered at night, ever harkening her home. Melian sung, but no longer could she become that song with her body of flesh so surrounding her. Instead, she spent her days teaching her daughter the secrets of the Maiar. She whispered, and Lúthien learned, and Thingol watched them both with a sad smile touching upon his mouth – the look of one who had long kept the unkeepable. 

"Do you ever miss it?" he whispered that night. "Being more?" 

.  
.

**Elderly**

Elu's mind was closed to her. He feared her answer, she realized. For a moment, neither breathed. 

She hesitated, remembering the peace of Lórien's gardens and the unsurpassed glory of Ilúvatar's music. But then she thought of the touch of flesh on flesh – the sweet thrill of her hand in his and the warmth of her daughter's embrace. She thought of loving, and being loved . . . 

. . . how could the glory of Valinor ever compare? 

_Until the end of time – all of my days_ , she whispered against his mind. _I promised, remember?_

Aloud, she answered, "What could be more than this?" 


	6. "the gaps between bones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Elros || Prompt: _Alike_

**Alike**

The markets of Armenelos bustled in the mid-day sun. Though they were some leagues away from the coast, the land-locked city seemed to smell of salt and sea-wind, as all of Númenor did. Alongside the scent of brine, the aroma of spices and roasting chestnuts rose from the stalls they passed, entreating the senses as much as the bright colors and exotic wears of the vendors vied to do. The shops held everything from metal-craft and wooden toys; seeds from the exotic Isle of Tol Eressëa; and the farmers' yield from their season in the fields. The King's City was all graceful white buildings and spiraling mosaics of colored glass, with the architecture designed to capture the brilliance of the sunlight and the never ending stretch of seashore surrounding the Island-kingdom. It was beautiful in its infancy, and stood to grow all the more so as the years passed on.

Númenor truly was a gift to its people, with the sons of Men made mighty as they stood together as a nation, great and strong, for the first time in their history. It was . . . pride he felt for his brother's accomplishments. All of Elrond's misgivings for his twin's choices were selfish in nature, and as such, he tried not to think of them often. Instead, he pushed aside his darker thoughts and let his brother show to him the changes that had been made since his last visit. Elros was all too happy to shirk aside his crown for the day in order to walk the city streets in simple garb, and the sight was common enough that many bowed and greeted their sire as he walked by with the practice of long ease. Elros had always been quick to smile, always ready to share both his humor and his warmth, and his people responded with love and admiration.

While they traveled at a sedate pace, Elros' youngest two children ran through the streets with quick and eager steps, ducking into shops and dancing between the lumbering carts while trailing laughter in their wake. Vardamir, the third and eldest, trailed some steps behind them all, with his nose pressed in the pages of a book as he walked. Nearly sixteen summers old, and a miniature replica of his father with his straight black hair and pale grey eyes, Vardamir was set apart in look from the crowd of Men around him, all the while moving with an easy grace reminiscent of his father's once-people. The two younger boys, Manwendil and Atanalcar, took after their mother in look with their curling brown hair and sea-blue eyes. Each child was endearingly quick and joyfully bright . . . and painfully mortal with their marching steps and eager eyes.

"See, it is as I told you in my letters," Elros clapped him on the shoulder when his stare once again turned to Vardamir. "He is like you to the point of being uncanny, is he not?"

"I was not always that . . . preoccupied," Elrond protested as Vardamir nearly walked into a stall selling melons before he realized the obstacle in his path. Yet his protest was half-hearted, at best.

Elros snorted. "If I had a coin for every time I kept you from walking into a wall while you were 'not preoccupied', the coffers of Númenor would be thrice what they are now."

Elrond raised a brow, but did not bother countering the other when he spoke the truth. He had brought an entire chest of books and scrolls from Gil-galad's library in Lindon, and Vardamir's eyes had turned alight at the gift - as if he had been given a chest of precious stones instead. The youth had wasted no time before turning through the collection with near reverent fingers, looking through first one book and then another, unable to decide which one to read through first.

While Elrond only needed to bring the written word to earn the affection of his eldest nephew, the younger boys had not even allowed him to fully disembark before asking him for stories. _Tell us again, what you saw when the Blessed Mariner felled the Black Dragon from his ship in the sky . . . . Tell us again, how Gil-galad the High-king spoke to Ulmo himself when your ship was caught in the Ossë-storm off of the Bay of Balar . . . Tell us again, how Maedhros the One-handed slew two legions of Morgoth's Orcs to recover you and Ada from their clutches when Amon Ereb was taken . . . Again, again, again!_ they asked with laughing young voices, even as Elros furrowed his brow and protested that he had told them the same stories time and again, yet they had never once clamored for repeats.

The little ones now laughed as they fell into step with their older brother again. Each one tugged on one of Vardamir's sleeves to get his attention, all the while rapidly waving their small hands as they told their sibling about what exciting ware had caught their eyes. Patiently, Vardamir looked away from his book to pay attention to his brothers' words, but his eyes turned back as soon as the children found something else in the market to amuse them.

"We are praying for a daughter next," Elros said as he watched his sons. "Azrë has told me in no uncertain terms that this will be the last child we have, and as dearly as I love my sons . . . A daughter, with black hair and her mother's blue eyes . . . can you imagine anything better than that? Perhaps I am too pointed in my prayers, but the Valar can be gracious at times, and I intend to be as specific as possible so that nothing is left to chance."

Slowly, Elrond nodded, all the while trying not to give away just how surreal the whole interaction was to him. He was still shy of his second century – little more than a child grown in the eyes of the Elves, and here his brother was, the same age as he, and a King of Men and a husband of many years, poised to welcome his fourth child into the world, at that. _Four_ , such a thing was almost unheard of amongst Elvenkind . . . _his_ kind, Elrond had to remind himself, for Elros was of Men now, and time was moving much too fast by his mortal allotment of years. Time raced by, while he . . .

 _Tell us again, how Maedhros the One-handed saved you and our great-great-grandfather from two whole legions of Morgoth's Orcs!_ Elrond had a flash of premonition, and for a moment, it hurt to breathe. A plunge from a cliffside and a Straight Road into the West? A fiery chasm, a lonely stretch of seashore, and an Oath unbreakable? A choice made to embrace mortal-doom? It made no difference either way - all things faded and all connections proved to be for naught for the end, this he well knew. Rather, he told himself that he was fortunate to learn these lessons young . . . and yet, even for each lesson learned, he still did not quite know how to harden his heart. For he loved Vardamir dearly - loved him even though someday he too would lie down in the ever-sleep of Men . . . someday all too soon. With certainty, Elrond knew that he would love each and every one of his brother's descendants as they lived and died, over and over and _over_ again . . . no matter the distance of years and the sea itself between them.

He swallowed, and could taste the bite of brine on the air.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Elros remarked when the silence between them stretched. They paused in the shade of a grocer's stall, with Vardamir coming to stand a few steps away as he flipped to the next page in his book.

Elrond looked over at his twin, trying to assure the other that all was well . . . but he found that he could only see the streak of grey at Elros' temples . . . the laugh-lines that crinkled from the corners of his eyes. The changes were subtle, but they were there for any eye to see. They were as thieves, saying: _this is how he is mortal. This is how he shall age. This is how he will die - die much too soon while you live on. On and on and on . . ._

"Ah, these," Elros realized where his gaze had fallen. He pushed up at his wrinkles in an exaggerated show of self-consciousness, his mouth quirking up in a rueful grin to lament, "I know, they are rather unbecoming when compared to the ever-young faces you are used to. And yet, we still do not look so very different. Oh, someday you shall come to visit, and they will mistake you for my son rather than confusing you with me - but, if we are _very_ clever, perhaps we can fool them, even still . . ."

Elrond knew that tone of voice - he _knew_ that it promised mischief with its ever syllable . . . but he was still caught unprepared when Elros reached into an open sack of flour and took out a handful. Unceremoniously, he darted over to smear the white powder in his hair, turning the black color there as 'grey' as his own would someday be.

"There," Elros said, smiling in triumph as he patted his hands together to clean them of the flour. "We look alike, once again."

Elrond blinked, first in shock, and then in amusement as he tried to brush away as much of the flour as he could. He only succeeded in spreading the flour to the shoulders of his tunic. "Indeed, the resemblance is now uncanny," Elrond responded in a level tone, even as he espied what he needed further in the grocer's stall. Elros followed his gaze, and held up his hands in protest.

"Ah, I am _sorry_ -" Elros tried to dodge, but he was not quick enough as Elrond picked up a jar of squid ink and dumped it over his twin's head without blinking.

"There," Elrond said smartly. " _Now_ we look alike."

Elros scowled mightily, even as he brushed his wet bangs back from his face. "Ai, that was unkind. At least _you_ do not smell like _fish_ now," he complained. "Squid ink, really?"

"Does the great sea-faring king protest a kindred spirit from the deep?" Elrond affected bewilderment at the idea. "I rather thought you liked the scent of fish, brother."

Elros' glower only darkened, and he stepped forward dangerously – his eyes looking for what else he could use in the shop, before a voice from behind stopped him.

"Ai! You little Orc!" came Vardamir's surprised exclamation. "Adar! Manwendil poured cocoa powder on my book!"

Elros looked over, eyes wide in surprise, even as Manwendil sheepishly put the empty jar of cocoa powder down. "He has hair like ours now," the younger boy said sheepishly as Atanalcar laughed gleefully beside him. The youngest boy's hair was white with flour too – and it clouded on the air around him as he hunched over with his giggles. Vardamir was not as amused as he tried to wipe off the books pages – his siblings were not tall enough to pour the powder on his head, and throwing the cocoa up had just splattered his face and the book in his hands with the brown dust.

Elros' face made an odd contortion as he tried to keep from smiling, and failed. He could not keep his face stern as he choked on his laughter. Next, he tried to hide his look behind his hand. He made a face when he realized that his hands too were covered in the squid ink, and doing so brought the smell right to his nose. Of course, that only had him laughing harder. Elrond tried to school his face into impassiveness, but doubted that he was successful – the flour in his hair certainly bellied any effort he made at imperviousness, anyhow.

"Ai," Elros scolded halfheartedly. "Next time, do not as I do, young ones – it shall only land you in mischief otherwise. Your mother will have cross words with us all when we return home now."

"Because you are in-cor-i-gable?" little Atanalcar chirped, the flour on his hair clouding on the air as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

"Incorrigible," Vardamir repeated slowly for his brother, but a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he worked out the bigger word for the young one.

"Yes! Incorrigible," Atanalcar exclaimed. "Thank-you."

Elros scowled, even as he turned to the bemused shop-keeper to pay for the mess they had made, and more. "Aye, _incorrigible_ – it sounds like something she would say." But his feigned annoyance only lasted until he reached down to pick up Atanalcar, and they all turned from the shop.

"You smell like fish, Ada," the little boy crinkled his nose, and at that, Elrond could not help himself. He laughed. He laughed and laughed and _laughed_ \- laughed as he had not in much too long a time, at that. Little sharing his humor, Elros only glared mightily at him all the while.

"Yes, yes; I hope you are amused," Elros muttered. "I shall bear your derision with dignity."

Elrond fell into step next to his twin as they turned back towards the palace. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I shall miss these moments, brother," he said, with all seriousness in his voice. The words were a truth, rather than a grief, and Elros' smiled sadly upon hearing them.

"Then we must endeavor to have as many such moments as possible in the time we have, no?" Elros replied, smiling even underneath the weight of his mortal-doom.

"I do believe," Elrond agreed, willing to believe the words in his heart even as he spoke them from his mouth, "that there is wisdom in that."


	7. "to hold the sun"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finarfin, Fëanor || Prompt, _Loyalty_ , 300 words

**Loyalty**

Visits from Fëanáro to Tirion were few, but Arafinwë awaited each one eagerly. This time, he carefully watched the way their father embraced his eldest son when he arrived; observing the way Fëanáro stiffly suffered through the affection before melting into Finwë's embrace as if he had no bones, his eyes glittering like a fire without kindle. The knuckles of his hands were white as they curved into their father's robes, if, but for a moment, reminding Arafinwë of the way he himself would cling to his father after a black dream in the night.

Sometimes, it was as though his brother was a flame, unable to be caught by hands lest one was burnt in return, he thought, and the likeness saddened him. Later, Arafinwë summoned his courage and carefully copied his Atar move for move, imagining that he tried to catch a ray of light in his hands as he wrapped his small arms around his brother's legs as best he could. His heart was full as he thought that maybe _this time_ -

\- but Fëanáro only reached down to gently pry his fingers away. To Arafinwë, the look in his eyes was no suffocating flame then, but rather a shadow, tired and cold.

Arafinwë looked at his brother's retreating back, unsure how to define the queasy sort of hurt he felt inside . . . like a wound left open to reveal bone beneath.

"Silly Arafinwë," Nolofinwë came up from behind him, having watched the whole exchange. "You know that Fëanáro lets none but Atar touch him."

"But he's _our_ brother," Arafinwë protested, confused.

"He is _Atar's_ son," Nolofinwë corrected, "And that is the only tie to this family he will let touch his heart."

"But why?" Arafinwë asked in bewilderment, unable to understand.

Nolofinwë's mouth made a sad line. "Loyalty," he answered, but when pressed he would say no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor


	8. "in sickness, in health"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beren/Lúthien || Prompt: _Catch_

**Catch**

It came upon her slowly, like a whisper of the wind before the rains came.

The cold season arrived for the first time since their coming to dwell in Tol Galen. There, Lúthien sang as she passed through the woods, but no longer did her voice have the power to turn the snows to melt, to turn the sleeping winter-trees towards a blossoming of spring flowers. Her voice was clear and lovely, and somewhere above her a bird trilled in reply to her song . . . but that was all. She trailed her fingertips over the trunks of the trees as she passed, and imagined that she could feel their great branches turn towards her . . . but no longer did they dance. No longer did they bow.

She now had to wear boots and gloves in deference to the cold of the season, even as mild as it was. The first time she had felt the chill to the air, she had blinked, trying to decipher what the sensation she felt was. She had only ever been cold in the halls of dark Angband before. She had known the chill of spirit that came from the breath of Mandos, but this . . .

This was what it was to be mortal, she realized; this was natural in her new body. And so, she adapted. Her dresses became thicker in reply to the new demands of her body. She wore fur lined cloaks and heavy wool instead of the light Elvish weaves had in Doriath. Her skin still prickled with gooseflesh when she walked outdoors, however; her breath frosted on the air as it turned towards winter.

Then, she awoke one morning to find that her eyes were warm. Her skin felt flushed and her nose ran – all terribly inconvenient symptoms that bloomed into a full blown sickness by the end of the day, with her stomach angry at her every breath and her body burning as with fire.

This was . . .

"A cold," Beren explained simply, dabbing at her brow with a cool cloth. "They come often at the start of the winter season, but you should be well within a day or two."

How terribly . . .

"It's a curse of Men," Beren said softly. "One of the new disadvantages of the body you wear."

Lúthien made a tired noise in the back of her throat, trying to hide just how horrible she felt from her husband. Beren still came to guilt over the smallest of things when it came to her sharing his human fate, and she had no wish to cause him pain now - not when she had naught of the strength to talk him out of his doubts and fears. The sheets stuck to her sweating skin as she moved; her throat felt like tree bark as it scrapped against branches.

"It is not . . . too trying," she managed to croak her words out. Her voice sounded much as her throat felt. She narrowed her eyes at the sound, vexed.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow. "Then Mandos was kind to you," he teased, a gentle humor peaking his voice. "For it is terribly inconvenient for the rest of us."

She snorted, wishing that she had the energy to swat at his arm. Instead, her fingers tightened in the sheets.

"I daresay that this part of our tale will not make it into the songs," Beren remarked as he stirred a combination of herbs into a kettle of boiling water. She watched him with interest as he did so – for, for every malady Mankind had to face, they seemingly had a dozen solutions and more. It was something that fascinated her – the perseverance of Men, the _resolve_ . . .

She tried to hold on to that same resolve in her own bones. She tried to make it her own.

"There are no lovely words for a minstrel to describe this," Lúthien agreed. "I know not what their lyric would be."

"Oh, I don't know," Beren said easily, trying to distract her from just how _terrible_ she felt. "You can rhyme 'snot' with 'mortal lot', and 'heal' with 'unflinching zeal'."

"Please," her laughter came as a raw sound from her throat. "Even the trees have ears – do not give them ideas."

"No? I shall have to think of something better then," Beren teased. With only one hand, his motions were careful as he stirred honey into her cup, and then handed her the mug of tea. She took it with gratitude, taking note of the herbs he used within, and resolving to ask him about it later. She wished to be prepared next time.

A moment passed between them. He dipped the cloth in cool water again and dabbed it at her forehead, his dark blue eyes soft with feeling – even with her nose red and her hair a tangled mess about her head. She saw a familiar curtain fall there, and before it could descend, she said, "I have been ill before." There was something like pride in her voice with the statement.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow.

"Indeed I have," she coughed into her hand. "Daeron and I were young, very young, but thought ourselves to be quite grown up – so grown up that we stole a bottle of wine at the feast that welcomed Anor to the sky . . . Thranduil and Celeborn found us, and Thranduil took it upon himself to teach us a lesson about spirits that were stronger than us."

Beren lifted a hand before his mouth to hide his smile, easily seeing where her story was going, but waiting for her to tell it.

"He out drank us until we were insensible," Lúthien revealed, making a face at the memory. "Celeborn helped me back to my rooms later, and Mother came up with a potion that night so that Father would not know the trouble I got myself into . . . but it was a good lesson. I never abused the vine again."

Beren had a glass of what the Elves called _wine_ once while in Menegroth, at the feast that celebrated their wedding, before realizing that his idea of wine and the Doriathrim's idea of wine varied greatly. Even half of that one glass had left him unsteady on his feet, his vision blurry, Lúthien remembered. She wondered if that would be much the same for her, now.

"This is not terribly different," Lúthien said, a note of stubbornness lining her voice. "Not at all."

"Again," Beren stroked a soothing hand through her hair. "Mandos was kind to you."

Her attempt at laughter turned into a chest-wracking cough, once again. Frustrating, she coughed into her hand, waiting for her body's traitorous reaction to be done. She was exhausted after her fit, and leaned back against her nest of pillow s with a sigh.

"You should try to sleep now," Beren counseled as he took the empty mug from her. "Sleep helps the sickness pass faster."

Whatever he put in the tea made her drowsy, she thought. Her eyes felt heavy; her limbs like stone. What a surprise that had been in those first days, discovering just how much sleep a mortal body needed, especially when they already had too few years to spend time in unwakefulness . . .

She made a noise in the back of her throat that was agreement, and felt herself drifting off before she felt the bed sag underneath an added weight. Familiar arms wrapped around her, and she blinked, groggy, before she turned to her husband in protest. "You should not stay," she said gently. "If you were to catch this -"

" - and leave you to your first sickness alone?" Beren shook his head. "There is no choice, dear one. Not for me."

She swallowed, but did not have the strength to protest further. Instead she settled into his hold, her head finding it's familiar place against his chest as she burrowed closer, arms and legs tangling with the ease of long intimacy. Her heart slowed in her chest. It was a warmth she felt then, a warmth that settled bone deep, fighting away the uncomfortable heat of her sickness. She had to admit, she did feel remarkably better being so entwined with him.

She would make him leave later, Lúthien thought drowsily. Yet, for now . . .

She awoke that morning feeling much revived. Her limbs felt movable. Her nose was dry and her throat was tender, but no longer was it rubbed raw. She sat up and felt at her skin, finding it warm to the touch, but the bite of her fever gone. She stood – too quickly it seemed, for she felt lightheaded a moment later, yet that was a small symptom when compared to how she had felt the night before.

 _Well_ , she thought, trying to look on her body's rebellion with eyes of good humor. _That was_ . . .

She looked down to see Beren still asleep, but not comfortably so, it took her a moment to realize. His breath was heavy and congested in his chest - a now familiarly telling sound to her ears. She bit at her lip, and reached down to touch his brow, finding it warm to her touch – too warm.

"Foolish man," she said, but there was fondness in her voice, even so.

Lúthien turned to the kettle, putting the water on to boil, even as she called to mind the herbs that Beren had used the day before. It was a process – long and slow, but she was learning. Slowly, she was starting to make a home in her new form . . . in her new life.

Humanity was as a sickness, she thought, and it was catching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 9/20/16


	9. "by any other name"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn/Galadriel || Prompts: _Sky, Sun, Moon, Stars, Lightning,_ 100 word drabbles

**Sky**

Artanis first met the Queen Melian in a glade filled with twilight. The Maia was as the Ainur of Valinor, and yet . . . there was something different about Melian. There was an earthiness about her, bellying the celestial might of her spirit - all of which was tied to the King at her side, he with his steel colored hair and his gaze so much like Olwë's that it _hurt_ as she remembered the Swan Havens and their red, red quays.

Transfixed, Artanis wondered, but could not understand how such a might as the sky could ever have lowered itself to love the earth.

.

.

**Sun**

Celeborn had seen the sun rise for the first time, outshining even the stars. Now, the maiden they called Artanis brought with her a second sunrise – crowned as she was with such a golden light, her eyes like the sky which the sun so brightened. She wore the day as Melian wore the twilight, and for the first Celeborn understood Doriath's founding tale – of magic and love and lust and time standing still as whole centuries passed the Maia and her stolen King by, caught as he now was in that same spell.

_Galadriel_ , he named her, and to him, _Galadriel_ she remained.

.

.

**Moon**

"You, dear sister, are quite smitten."

"Speak not when it makes you sound foolish, Finrod."

"You have been ignoring Thingol's kinsman since the feast began," he ignored her. "Instead, poor Sírnoth thinks that you grant him quite the honor tonight with your attention."

_Sírnoth's hair was not silver_ , Artanis thought, but did not say.

"Fëanor himself would have given all his treasures for three strands of your hair," Finrod continued brightly. "Over every mooning suitor in hallowed Aman, the granddaughter of Finwë instead finds her match in a _Moriquendi_ \- a son of the trees?"

"My match?" Artanis repeated dumbly, and Finrod only smiled.

.

.

**Stars**

They walked the forests on the moonless nights that Celeborn so adored. And yet, even drunk on the stars and their unveiled splendor, she refused to tell him how she could not tell where the silver light ended and he began. She refused to tell him that when the starlight shone through the trees, dappling his skin just so, she found it hard to breathe.

_Artanis, what do you fear?_

She thought of Indis then. Of Nerdanel after Fëanor's heresy. And even of Finrod's own Amarië - all strong woman made _weak_ by love.

_I fear nothing_ , she swore, and kept her silence.

.

.

**Lightning**

"In the end, it comes down to trust," Melian said from her scyring bowl. Afterwards, she carried on as if nothing was amiss, while Artanis blinked - seeing, for the first, her mentor trapped by her raiment of flesh and bone, but not diminished . . .

. . . instead, she was the stronger for it.

Later, Thingol called her by name, and she was Artanis no more.

"Galadriel," she corrected. Next to her, Finrod nearly choked on his wine. "Galadriel, I have been named by your prince," she continued, feeling the rightness of the name strike her like storm-light. "And I would keep it as my own."


	10. "from the tender earth"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haleth/Caranthir || Prompt: _Bury_

**Bury**

The first time Caranthir met Haleth, daughter of Haldad, her people were a small and wounded thing, struggling to stand around her. And yet, even for the smoke billowing from the ruins of her village . . . for the corpses littering the ground, some not yet cold with death . . . even with the mire of the battle clinging to her body like warpaint, he had thought that nothing could touch her.

He had known of her people for some time now - squatters dwelling in the southern woods of his lands, whose presence he had all but ignored, even as others of his kind marveled over the arrival of Mankind to the world. The Secondborn were little more than insects to his eyes - not out of any arrogant sense of supremacy on his part, but for the simple allotments of nature, for the years of Men were few, and the struggles they faced within those numbered days were many. Their bodies bruised and broke as even the children of his kind did not, and they took sick easily, oftentimes falling into their ever-sleep from the failings of their flesh even before giving their up their lives to the unmovable hands of time. They lived, they died, and they did so within the blinking of an eye; over and over again.

Caranthir had long failed to understand his cousin Finrod's fascination with their ilk, and for his part, he paid them no heed. Let them roam his lands – for they were few in number, and were always moving, restless in spirit as they rushed onwards toward their end. They would not last long before passing through, he had first thought.

Yet, he was not the only one to take notice of the Late-comers upon his lands, the Dark Lord too looked and saw a pocket of humanity trying to live and carve out homes for themselves in what peace and prosperity the could. Of course, such a thing was not to be borne in Morgoth's mind, and he send a legion of his creatures through the Leaguer in the North to see to the village's destruction. It was not for the Atani that Caranthir took up arms, he first told himself when he ordered him men into the fray. There were simply Orcs on his lands, and he would not stand their presence marring what he had claimed as his own. And so, he and his men picked up their arms and put to the sword the warring party of Morgoth's filth. The Orc-band had cornered the Atani on a triangle of land where the rivers Gelion and Ascar met, with their backs to the water and their supplies – of both men and food - running perilously thin. The Orcs they did not kill with the sword, they pushed towards the river, where the icy currents and white waves took them to a watery grave, just the same.

The battle was done almost before it begun, with the wide eyes behind the cobbled together barricade huge with disbelief and gap-jawed wonder. They had not expected aid of any kind, he thought, especially from the likes of him. Slowly, the people – mostly farmers and woodsman, with mismatched weapons and makeshift armor for battle – trickled out. They moved slowly, as if disbelieving that it was now safe to do so. They muttered as they looked about – mostly in a language he could not understand, but a few used halting lines of the Grey-tongue. Ah, they were familiar with Finrod's people, then. Or, at least, they learned the language from kin who were.

Caranthir reigned his horse towards the few men left who wore somewhat adequate armor and held forged steel – the tattered remnants of the Haladin's defenses, he suspected. While he did not expect the leader of the Haladin to fall at his feet and do him obeisance, he did expect some sort of thanks for the efforts of his men, and he expected it now.

 . . . what he did _not_ expect was for a soldier in the middle of the ragtag group to step forward. The man looked at him through a visored helm before crispy declaring in accented Sindarin, "You, my lord, are late."

Caranthir felt a ripple of shock pass through his warriors, and he let a sharp grin carve his face at the mortal's audacity. He knew his own face well enough - knew the way he could hold his anger in his eyes as stars, with the fire of Fëanor rising high for all to see. And so, he let that ember breathe. He called it to flame.

He ignored the accusation, and dismounted slowly from his horse, pausing then to flick Orc-blood from his blade as if it was not worthy of his moving a hand to wipe it away. The steel caught on the midday sun, for a moment flashing bright.

"Your leader, child?" he said, not even bothering to look at the insolent mortal before him. "I will speak to him, and no other."

"Then you speak to her," came the same voice, clipped and sharp.

 _Her_ , his mind had but a moment to process before gloved – and decidedly _feminine_ hands – rose to lift the war helm from her head. When she did so, a long braid of wheat-brown hair tumbled loose, while clear grey-blue eyes stared at him frankly from beneath long black lashes. It was the face of a woman, he realized after a heartbeat, though her features were plain for a daughter of the Atani – ugly, even, in the eyes of the Eldar. Though she wore boiled leather and a vest of chain-mail, he looked and could see where he had missed a woman's form before. _Child_ , he had called her, but she already bore a crinkling of lines about the corners of her eyes. She had but a few decades before her hair would streak with silver and her frank gaze dulled from the hands of time. Yet, for now . . .

He looked her over once, and did not blink.

"Haldad my father, and Haldar my brother are both dead," she announced. She did not flinch as she said so, even though their blood must have been fresh upon the ground before him. Caranthir glanced, but the corpses all looked the same to him. "As I have no husband, Haleth Haldad's daughter leads this people now, and it is to her you may speak."

"Then it is from you I will accept your people's thanks," he said slowly, his head tilted up arrogantly. As he spoke, he let the tip of his sword rest in the ground. The wet soil turned as he slowly twisted the hilt.

The woman - Haleth - only snorted in reply, raising a brow as if in disbelief. "I?" she questioned, her voice turning low with a dark mirth. "I, thank _you_? For what? For passing through with the sword when it _so happened_ to be convenient to you? Since the first of the winter melt we have fought these creatures. And yet, you came to these woods to hunt, not to give aid to me and mine. I thank you, Master-elf, for the lives you have saved, but I do not thank you for your condescension, nor the way you look down your nose at me now."

A moment passed. Caranthir moved his mouth, but found himself slow to form his words. "The lady thinks me both ungracious and craven of heart?" he could not help the touch of humor that leached into his words – like a cat, amused by the squeakings of a mouse. "Not many are brave enough to speak to me so."

 _Not many indeed_ , he reflected wryly. Even his brothers were slow to cross him in anger, he having inherited the worst of both of his parents' tempers, and naught of Nerdanel's ability to call both herself and others to peace.

"Not craven," Haleth corrected him. Her wide mouth pressed into a thin line as she said so. "Nay, indeed, for I saw you with a sword in your charge; I would not accuse without truth. Yet I still call you arrogant, my lord, and I am weary from the weeks of battle. I have too few silvered words within me to phrase my thoughts better."

"No," Caranthir mused aloud. "I think that you said exactly what you meant to say, exactly as you wished to say it."

He stalked forward, slow and easy with his stride, flaunting how very _far from human_ he was as he walked. Haleth watched him warily, her eyes flickering from the grip of his sword hand to the knife-line of his mouth, but she did not back away. She did not yield him ground. "Yet there is a truth to your words," he admitted, albeit grudgingly. "In your eyes, I have done wrong by your people, and I would see that set to rights. Please, my lady, tell me how I may do so."

He stopped not even a pace from her, a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth as he imagined how they must have appeared to those onlooking. She was tiny when compared to him, with the top of her head scarcely reaching the base of his throat. She was broad of shoulder and wide of hips while he was lithe even within his armor. She moved like the river behind them, all rushing and strong as she defiantly folded her arms over her chest, while he was like the swaying of the tall trees in the wind. His armor was a deep blue, nearly black, touched by silver at the points, and the elegant eight pointed star of Fëanor was emblazoned upon his breastplate. He wore the silver circlet of a prince at his head. As the son of the most beautiful of the Noldor, he knew that his countenance was striking – from the pale perfection of his features to the black fall of his hair. His eyes, even when shadowed by his Oath, still held the light of the Trees and Valinor remembered . . . and this mortal woman, with her tanned skin and weathered complexion, with her boiled leather and thick, mud stained boots stood before him and refused to back away.

When Haleth finally answered him, her words were slow, as if an idea occurred to her even as she spoke it. Distantly, her eyes reminded him of the way sparks would jump from a stone when struck. "If you truly wish to offer us aid, then I would bid you and yours to help us bury our dead. We lost nearly all of our strong men in the sortie, and I will ask neither old woman nor young child to pick up a shovel for their fathers and sons."

Her words were a challenge, he saw. She did not expect him to accept, to lower himself to the indignity of grave-digger. She stood with her feet lined with her shoulders in a soldier's stance, her arms still crossed. She expected him to back down.

And so, he thrust his sword into the ground between him. With an exaggerated slowness, he moved to unbuckle the first plate of his armor, and then the second.

"Tell me where I am to dig," he answered simply. He did not have to look behind him to know that his men stiffened in surprise, with each one warily eyeing the other before they too went to undo their ties. "We will do our part to see your loved ones laid to rest."

Haleth tilted her head, nonetheless wary. She watched him as one would a serpent, and for a moment he thought that she would send them away.

"This way, then," she said. When she turned, she did not look behind to see if he followed, but follow he did.  
  
  
  
.

.

Caranthir dug gravesites for the better part of the day, and now the evening hour was nearly upon them.

While he worked, he watched the small conclave of Atani as they went about putting themselves together again. Haleth was right - most of their men had fallen in the raids. A chosen pocket of fighting men still remained standing, and there were even a few strong shouldered woman who wore armor over their chests and swords at their hips. Besides those few, their group was composed of the elderly and the young, and their numbers too were far from untouched by Morgoth's scurge. Caranthir had dug too many resting places for children that day, and his skin was uncomfortable over his bones for the senseless loss, even after the long years of war and bloodshed he had seen.

Yet, more and more often than not, he found his eyes drawn back to Haleth.

Seven days . . . for seven days she had been without father or twin brother, he had since learned. Only seven days ago she had the burden of leadership quite unexpectedly thrust upon her, but he would have not have been able to tell so from merely watching her. Haleth held her head high as she walked through the camp, as if she was separate from the grief around her. She touched children fondly as she passed, ruffling hair and stitching dolls when asked. She took counsel with the elders who had survived, not once pretending that she had every answer when she herself was relatively few of years. She directed the efforts to scavenge what they could from the settlement, looking over tallies and overseeing rations as they were made. She visited the healer's tent and comforted both those wounded and those who grieved for ones who would not live through the night. She even checked in with their cook to see how the mass preparations for the evening meal was coming – a veritable feast of rabbit stew and flat bread when compared to the rations they had been living on while under siege.

Already Caranthir was calculating what he had on him that could be spared for the struggling group. He and his men had already felled game aplenty, and the meat would go far in feeding the people around him. His men were skilled hunters, and they would easily recover what they would give away on the way back to Lake Helevorn. His offer had been met with a crisp nod and a muttered word of gratitude before Haleth turned away from him, leaving him with an uncomfortable twisting in his gut – an unexpected . . . curious sensation, as he watched her walk away and wished that he could do more.

He . . . he remembered his own father's death, even though it had been centuries ago, now. He remembered how Fëanor's fire had blazed even hotter than the Lord of Balrogs before he collapsed in on himself, leaving nothing but ash in his wake. There had been nothing left of Fëanor to bury . . . nothing left of his physical body to mourn . . . but Caranthir had _felt_ the snapping of his father's fëa deep in his soul, ripped from him like a wound, and he . . .

 . . . he had not been able to breathe in the aftermath of that battle. He had not been able to weep as he looked down at his bloodstained hands and wondered what it was all for. Everything, from the first Teleri life taken to the last ship burned at Losgar . . . it had been for _nothing_. When, only days later, Maedhros too was taken from them . . .

Caranthir had not been able to move from the grief in his bones, from the pain in his heart. How could she be so calm now, he wondered? How could she lead her people with her head held high and her mind cold and rational as she tended to what had to be done? Was this some hidden strength of Men? he wondered. What uncanny ability did these with so few of years have to live and live on brightly - to persevere and _thrive_  beneath the yoke of such great adversity? _What was he not understanding?_

The only thing he knew was that his eyes turned to Haleth time and time again as the day wore on. Once, even, he had caught her staring in return, her eyes unblinking as she took in the sight of him knee-deep in a grave (the same height now, they looking eye to eye). He did not flatter himself this time – his skin was marred with dirt, and his hair stuck to the back of his neck in graceless tangles. He had shucked aside his armor and tunic so that he worked only in his linen undershirt and doeskin leggings, but it was not the play of his body she watched. No . . . it was the grave he dug . . . the grave he filled.

When she blinked and turned away, it was with an odd stinging in his heart that he wished for her eyes to turn back to him again.  
  
  
  
.

.

By the time the sun was setting, they only had a dozen graves left to dig and fill.

Beyond them, the clearing stank where Haleth's men had dragged the Orc corpses to be burned. The black stain of smoke from their pyre was as a bruise against the twilit sky. The smoke stung his eyes until Caranthir turned from both the funeral pyres and the freshly turned graves around him. He needed a moment away from the earth they filled, he decided. He left directions to his men, and headed to the river waiting just beyond them, intent on cleaning his hands and drinking from the depths there. His soul was troubled, and he needed a moment to gather himself.

Caranthir walked some ways away, not wanting any to see how the day's events had affected him. He felt as a green youth all over again, making his first kill in the woods of Aman as Celegorm laughed at him for how he blanched at the sight of the deer's blood. But that death had been natural, at the very least – with they taking what the Valar had granted them as gifts of the earth. This . . . this was senseless. This was needless, and he thought again of Alqualondë and its quays stained red until -

\- he realized that he was not alone.

He was not the only one looking for privacy by the riverside, it would seem - for a retreat from the grief-struck eyes beyond in order to give into a grief of his own. Haleth herself was kneeling on the bank when he came to where the trees parted, her back hunched and her face held in her hands as the river babbled on soothingly before her.

She had washed from the battle, was the first thing he saw. Her hair was undone from her braid, and fell in half-damp curls around her shoulders, hanging nearly to her waist. She had set aside her armor, but still wore a leather jerkin and dark brown leggings in the style of a man. Her boots were strong and sturdy on her legs, leaving tracks on the muddy shore to where she knelt, with the ground still wet with both with blood and snow-melt.

She splashed water on her face, and it took him but a moment to realize that she had been crying. She was not as unaffected as he would have first thought; she was not untouchable. He could not see her face, but he could see the stiff set of her shoulders, the bent line of her back . . . She grieved and knew pain, but somehow she was only the stronger for it. Her grief did not make her appear weak before his eyes.

He stood at the line of trees, unsure for a moment. In the end, he decided against leaving, and purposefully stepped on a twig as he came closer, letting her know of his presence. She looked up as he came near, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes before turning to face him.

"How many are left?" she asked instead of greeting him. Her voice was a whisper, made hoarse from her weeping. Already her eyes had dried. When she looked at him, he could not tell that she had cried at all.

"A dozen or so," he answered. His hands were fists as he knelt by the river; slowly, he uncurled his fingers in the water. The current took the grave-soil from his palms, as if it had never been.

"My . . ." she tried to make her throat work. It afforded her no sound. "My brother?  . . . my father?"

"They are next," he said, and while his voice was not gentle, he knew that the challenge there had gone. He could not remember why it had been there in the first place.

"Good," she nodded sharply before turning to rise once more. She paused for a moment, but she was steady on her feet when she looked at him. "I wish to dig them myself."

A part of him wanted to protest out of habit, as much as anything else. It was not traditional, it was not _usual_ for a woman to do such a thing, but he was not sure how to find the words to say so. If Fëanor had left them anything to bury, Caranthir thought . . . if he had . . .

"I understand," he said simply, and while it was all he said, she looked at him with a raised brow. Her eyes were darker in the twilight, the same color as the river before them, and there was something there that considered him before she nodded sharply, her decision made.

When they returned to the now sprawling graveyard, he handed her a shovel, and none questioned her place amongst the working men as she drew that first bite from the earth. A moment later, and then a second shovelful was taken. Then a third.

He watched her before taking his place to dig next to her. After a moment of nothing to hear but for the slide of steel against the soil, he found a lament rising to his lips – a song of mourning, singing the mortal souls to wherever it was the sons of Men partook of their rest beyond the circles of the earth. He entreated Námo, he sang to Eru himself for his undeserved mercy and kindness. His men took up his song as the sun set overhead, its last rays bathing the faces of those they buried before the soil of their graves covered them like the night. After a long while, their lament turned without words – a hum of grief without syllable or rhyme. It was a song he had sung one too many times, he thought. He knew its verses all too well.

Haleth did not know the words he sang. She could not even begin to understand the High Tongue to try and sing along. But she did add her voice when the song became at last wordless, and her voice was soon joined by many others. While not beautiful, her voice was strong, and when she placed the last shovelful of dirt over her father's grave, her throat was hoarse. Her eyes were red, even as no tears fell.

Eventually, the song ebbed from his lips, and yet many others in the camp carried it on - with new voices picking up the refrain where others tired and tapered off until they were strong enough to join again. It was a song that went on, unbroken, long into the night.


	11. "measured by many branches"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel & Ensemble || Prompt: _Ice, Ski, Sled, Avalanche, Melt, Frost, Snowball, Snowman, Snowfall, Tradition, Holiday_

**Ice  
  
** He had not know that it was possible to feel so cold.  
  
The Helcaraxë was bitterly frigid, even before his ill advised trip through the frozen waters underneath the ice shelf they walked upon. Now, the cold was an all but unbearable agony as his teeth chattered and his skin paled to an alarming shade of blue. The healers worried for whether or not he would keep his fingers and toes, and though the worst of that imminent danger was past, he still had trouble bending his limbs properly, he still could not feel his fingertips beyond the pins and needles sensation of _pain_. His hair had frozen in a solid clump of dull gold after he clawed his way from the water, and had to be cut away lest the cold about his neck do him more harm than his vanity was worth. Glorfindel was trying not to think about that, however. Not yet, anyway.  
  
And yet, he knew that he would do it again if he had the ability to choose – a hundred times over, if he had to. For, one moment Elenwë and Itarillë had been walking next to him, and then they were falling, _falling_ , and he had reached until his hand had caught the child's in a desperate hold, and he had swam desperately for the surface. He had given all of his innermost warmth to succor the shivering thing in his hold once they broke the surface of the water - even to the point of doing a serious harm to himself, and now . . .  
  
Now, he was dry and relatively warm, and yet he still could not fight the chill from his bones, the cold from his spirit. He was heart-sick and soul-sore for the loss of his friend, and . . .  
  
“You are not smiling,” Itarillë said sleepily from beside him, rousing him from his thoughts. Turukáno had been inconsolable since their failing to save Elenwë, blindsided by the double most pain of feeling his wife's death deep within his spirit, and now he was with his father and sister. Glorfindel had taken the girl for the night, so that she would not have to see and feel her father's grief. Beyond that, he had not wanted to let her out of his sight for some inexplicable fear, deep inside . . .  
  
“You are always smiling,” Itarillë continued on a whisper. Though her face was red and her eyes were raw from her tears, she reached out a single, tiny fingertip to touch the corner of his mouth, as if by doing so she could return his smile to its place. The only child amongst their host, the Ice had touched her the least physically before, but now . . . her spirit . . .  
  
“I shall try to smile for you, little one,” Glorfindel muttered, holding her closer. The Ice had taken away physical boundaries from every soul in their host. All in their camp had become long used to sharing the heat of their bodies, both for the warmth of flesh and the comfort of spirits. Now, Itarillë burrowed closer to him, and he ran a soothing hand through her hair as the winds moaned a sad song beyond their tent. On the other side of Itarillë, Ecthelion had been quiet throughout the whole encounter, but he rubbed absently at the child's back as he eased her into a healing sleep, where she would rest without dreams.  
  
“She will heal,” Ecthelion muttered as her breathing deepened and evened out. “The soul of this one is strong.”  
  
“She should not have to be so strong of spirit,” Glorfindel found his words thick in his throat. “Not when so young.”  
  
Ecthelion did not respond to that, but his silvery eyes turned shadowed in reply. A heartbeat passed. “You do always have a smile,” Ecthelion said simply. “It warms others more than you know.”  
  
“There is no warmth here,” Glorfindel said after a moment. He was too weary for words spoken closely together. “At least, not where I can find.”  
  
“Even so,” Ecthelion rolled his shoulders.  
  
Glorfindel did not respond, and yet, when Itarillë shifted, restless in her sleep, the other man started to hum softly in the back of his throat - a hymn to Laurelin, now long gone from the sky, whispering of light and warmth. Voices could not rise in song on the Helcaraxë for long, but Ecthelion nonetheless found his warmth, and gave what verses he could.  
  
Glorfindel simply closed his eyes, and listened.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
**Ski**  
  
It was, in his mind, a perfectly acceptable idea.  
  
His friend, however, was quick to disagree. And yet, seeing as how Ecthelion differed with him on a great many things, Glorfindel had not yet decided whether he would heed his words, or cast them aside.  
  
As he pondered his quandary in his mind, he curiously placed his shield on the ground, kneeling before the hardened steel and squinting down the mountainside, wondering . . .  
  
“You are going to get yourself killed,” Ecthelion pointed out dryly.  
  
“Nonsense,” Glorfindel waved a hand. “You and I are fated to find our ends in grand and laudable ways. This -”  
  
“ - trying to appease your boredom with guard-duty by acting with the mind of a simpleton?” Ecthelion supplied helpfully. “You merely had to say so; I have paperwork aplenty if you wished to keep busy.”  
  
Glorfindel made a face. “As tantalizing as your offer is, I must decline. And, yet . . .”  
  
Ecthelion sighed, the motion only just disturbing the pale stone cast of his features. He was entirely too silver on the mountainside, Glorfindel thought; his helm and armor glittering in the sunlight, catching on the tip of the spear he held . . .  
  
Ah!  
  
“My friend,” he praised warmly. “You have given me quite the idea.”  
  
He toed the shield aside, and stood upon it, rather than knelt. He then stuck his own spear into the ground, steadying himself . . .  
  
Ecthelion was hardly impressed. “Eru help Mandos find patience when he gathers your soul,” he said, ever encouraging. “Although I do believe that you would be the one spirit to successfully annoy Lord Námo into casting you back early. You would cause too much of a splash in the Halls, I fear.”  
  
Glorfindel snorted out a laugh. It was hard not to, with the cold mountain air and the fresh fallen snow; the untouched slope just _taunting_ him . . .  
  
He gathered himself, ready to push off, when -  
  
“ - here,” Ecthelion said, resigned to his course. Glorfindel looked, and saw that his friend offered him his own spear. “So that you may balance yourself with both hands.”  
  
Glorfindel could not help but smile, knowing how much that would irk the other. “My friend,” he let his smile grow as he took the spear. “You _do_ care.”  
  
“Do not let any know,” Ecthelion replied wryly. “And do try to avoid the pointed ends should you come upon a fall. Manwë only knows what the songs would say then.”  
  
But his words were already lost to the wind as the mountain roared in his ears.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
**Sled**  
  
“And what is _this_ I see?”  
  
“ _This_ , is not what it looks like.”  
  
“If by this,” Glorfindel said easily, walking forward to toe at the thin metal disk that his friend was arranging on the ground, “you mean: 'a sure way to find oneself in to Mandos' Halls', then I think that _this_ is exactly what it looks like.”  
  
Ecthelion scowled. “ _This_ , is a sled,” he pointed out primly, “And it has been designed by Maeglin himself for just such a venture. One shall be sitting, not standing. And certainly not standing with weapons in hand to _ste_ _e_ _r_ with.”  
  
Glorfindel waited for one moment, and then two. He smiled, knowing. “And the child asked you to do so, did he not?”  
  
Ecthelion's fair face flushed, and Glorfindel smiled widely, knowing that he had caught his friend. In their impossibly still city, new unions were rare and children even rarer still. Eärendil was a blessing to their people; with his laughter brightening the mountains and heartening the souls of all who watched him grow. His curiosity and wide eyes for the newness of the world stirred the fondness of their immortal race, who, at times, slipped into age long habits and routines without even realizing they did so. The family he served, and quite thought of as his own, had blossomed with the addition of the boy; Idril fairly glowed in the role of both wife and mother, and Turgon their Lord had not been as happy with a grandchild to spoil as he had since the last his wife drew breath.  
  
His stern friend had taken to the child more than most, and the little prince was equally fascinated in kind - following the old warrior's footsteps down to the way he walked, all the while begging for songs and stories and carved wooden toys.  
  
Glorfindel breathed in deep, and found that the cold stretched his lungs in a pleasant way. It had been too long since he last felt so content in his own skin, he reflected. He felt rooted in that moment, bound as he was to the land beneath his feet as he had never felt in Aman across the Sea. He exhaled, and found that Ecthelion was watching him, a thoughtful look on his face. He wondered if his friend could feel it too.  
  
“As our resident sledding expert,” Ecthelion said in a grave tone, “I would welcome any advice you would have to offer.”  
  
“My friend,” Glorfindel clapped the other on the back. “You only had to ask.”  
  
  
  
.

.

 **Avalanche**  
  
He had always known that his life would end this way.  
  
It was not to him to fade away with the end of the world and the great ages of time. He would not fall to so simple an end from an enemy on the battlefield - a stray arrow or a lucky twist of an Orc-blade. No . . . he would die greatly, and he would die in flames.  
  
The mountains were cold this time of year. The snow drifts were up to the thighs of most as they scrambled to flee from the ruin of the city behind them. The black smoke of burning Gondolin reached the heavens like the shadow of night, and soot fell on the mountain passes like snow, as foul and elementally _wrong_ as Morgoth's horde of filth behind them.  
  
And, before them . . .  
  
“You do not have to do this,” he heard Idril plead. The grip of her hand was white-knuckled on the plates of his armor. Had he not worn it, her touch would have left bruises. “ _Please_.”  
  
Such a fear was carved onto her face, a face so much like dear Elenwë's, he thought. Tears clung to her eyes, for her father's death . . . Maeglin's betrayal . . . for Ecthelion, dead in the Square of the King as he faced the Lord of Balrogs himself, they each taking the other life for life . . .  
  
Yet, at Idril, Glorfindel only smiled. He took the few seconds he had left to wipe a tear away as he had those long centuries ago, passing a hand through her hair as he tucked it behind her ear in one fond gesture of farewell.  
  
“Dear Itarillë,” he said. “Always, this has been the ending I have wished for myself. I do this without grief in my heart; I know not a single regret.”  
  
He let his smile hold. He could feel his fëa as it rose to his skin, no longer content as it was to be constrained by the cage of his flesh. In that moment, he knew that light poured from him as some living, breathing thing all its own. He could see his innermost light reflected in the eyes of those he would die protecting; he could feel it blaze like an inferno, greater than even the demon of flame who awaited him beyond – bellowing out his challenge to the mountain itself.  
  
Idril held his hand to her face for a moment, then two, and then he turned from her.  
  
“Run, Itarillë,” he said as he approached his end. “Run, and do not look back.”  
  
He felt his fëa as it rose higher, as it filled the air around him like a flame. His smile was one of challenge as he faced the creature awaiting him. He thought of Turgon as he twisted his sword in his hands; the King he loved, whom he would soon meet in the Halls of Mandos. He thought next of dear Idril and the boy-child Tuor held in his arms. Tuor was a strong man, and he would lead his people well, Glorfindel knew. His Lord's family would live through them - _live_ , and he . . .  
  
The Balrog struck his whip of flame. His demon wings struck against the ground like thunder, blocking out the sunlight above. His foul mouth was an evil line of amusement, as if his audacity in challenging him was something to _laugh_ over. But it did not matter. For, in that moment, Glorfindel was great enough to match him. In that moment, Glorfindel was not of flesh and bone, but rather _light_ . . .  
  
Together, he knew, they would bring down the mountainside.  
  
  
  
.

.

 **Frost**  
  
A year had passed since his release from the Halls, and yet, Glorfindel still felt a coldness of spirit that was simply _not right_ in this land of peace and plenty. Aman was just as he remembered it being . . . but he . . . he had changed. He had changed, while the home he had once left far behind stayed ever the same.  
  
“Am I the only one who feels this way?” Glorfindel asked his friend, just having struggled to put his thoughts into words.  
  
Ecthelion had been released from Mandos near the same time as he, and he had spent his time since then building a small cottage off of the road between Tirion and Alqualondë, where he could be close to both of his peoples. Now, he was teaching roses to bloom up trellises on the side of his small house, patiently trimming and coaxing as he went.  
  
For he had forever to do so.  
  
Glorfindel sat, and let the garden soil trail through his fingers as he picked it up and let it fall again.  
  
“I do not know,” Ecthelion answered simply. “I suppose there are some who feel as you do, and yet . . . this burns in you like a live flame. I could feel it like embers about your soul, even before you spoke of it to me.”  
  
“And you . . .” Glorfindel asked, reaching for something he could not name. “Do you feel . . .” He could not finish his thought. His tongue could not form the words.  
  
“I?” Ecthelion asked. “If I had a choice . . .” he sighed, a long and weary sound that had no place in hallowed Aman. “I fought against the Shadow; I died doing so. Now the years have moved on, and our fight belongs to others now. If I were given the choice . . . I believe that I would stay here, with my gardens.”  
  
Glorfindel sighed though his nose, wiping his hands clean as he did so. He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee, thinking . . .  
  
He had met Eärendil the day before last – and what a shock that had been, to see Idril's child as a man grown. He had a pretty Sindarin bride now – Elwing the White, the last Queen of the Sindar and granddaughter of Lúthien Fairest-born, of all people – and two full grown sons of his own back in Middle-earth. He wore the Silmaril of Lúthien about his brow now, warming every room he entered with a holy light, and yet . . .  
  
And yet, Eärendil seemed to suffer from the same restlessness of spirit that he did, Glorfindel thought, his heart clenching oddly. Eärendil mourned, and Glorfindel . . .  
  
_“I would give anything to go back,_ _even though I know that it is selfish to think such things_ _. . .”_  
  
_“ . . . the world needed me,_ _and so I answered th_ _e_ _call_ _of my people_ _. If I had not done what I had,_ _the Dark Lord_ _himself_ _would still reign in the uttermost north, and yet . . ._ _I would be lying if I said that it was merely duty which shaped my deeds . . . for the sea called to me, and I could not . . . I was not strong enough to . . .”_  
  
_“ . . . I chose my duty over my family . . ._ _Should such bonds have been more sacred than mere duty? I do not know half of the time, and it is an argument that runs my mind in circles at night . . ._ _”_  
  
_“ . . . I left them there, and Elwing did too . . . left them to_ _the_ _Fëanorians_ _and their cruel mercies . . .”_  
  
_“ . . . and yet,_ _my sons_ _were loved in their care._ _My sons called Kinslayers 'father', and I only 'Gil-estel' – an untouchable star in the night sky . . ._ _And yet . . . the Sons of_ _Fëanor_ _have always taken family most seriously, perhaps_ _I should not have been as surprised as I was_ _. . .”_  
  
_“ . . ._ _surprised, and grateful . . .”_  
  
_“ . . ._ _my youngest_ _son_ _chose the fate of Men, and passed on_ _in mortal-death_ _less than five years ago_ _. . . I never had a chance to know my son, and now, I never will . . .”_  
  
_“ . . . and the other . . .”_  
  
_“ . . . I sail over Lindon every night, looking down . . . and yet I cannot touch, I cannot offer comfort . . . there is so much I cannot do . . .”_  
  
_“ . . . the world calls me_ _'_ _hope_ _'_ _, but I . . . I would give anything to go back, even if but for a moment . . .”_  
  
_“ . . ._ _I would give_ _anything.”_  
  
_Anything._  
  
“My answer pains you,” Ecthelion said gently, breaking him from his thoughts.  
  
“Never that,” Glorfindel said, rising to his feet. He then felt anchored in his skin, with a war he had long been waging in his mind now coming to an end. He knew what he wanted. Now, he had only to figure out how to make his wishes a reality. He had to . . .  
  
“I wish you well on your journey,” Ecthelion said, seeing where he consciously made the choice his spirit had long since decided. “Truly, you are a light to this marred world.”  
  
For a moment, Glorfindel found it hard to breathe. He could feel the thin layer of ice about his spirit melting, as spring breaking from the winter, and yet . . .  
  
“I wish not to . . .” he started, not sure how to phrase his words.  
  
“Leave me behind?” Ecthelion raised a dark brow. “It is true, you shall send your soul to Mandos again on some foolhardy stunt without me to advise sense and caution. Even so, I am sure you will be just fine.”  
  
Glorfindel snorted. “Admit it, I have always kept your life from dull monotony.”  
  
“It is true,” Ecthelion did not bother denying it. “Yet . . . I have forever to wait for your return. I shall enjoy the quiet while you are gone.”  
  
Glorfindel felt his heart rise, full in his chest. He turned to embrace the other man, not ashamed at the tears when they came. “My friend,” he said truly. “I will miss you.”  
  
“And I you,” Ecthelion gave a gentle smile. “And yet, for now I will stay . . . and wait for the roses to bloom.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
**Melt**  
  
So far, the unforeseen difficulties with his return to Middle-earth came not from any outside impetus, but rather, from the descendant of his Lord himself.  
  
Oh, Elrond was polite enough, but that was precisely the problem. Elrond was polite to all, but truly friendly to none. He was respected by all, but close to no one in particular. He was a noted scholar, a decorated warrior, a brilliant tactician - a healer without compare . . . but Glorfindel still knew nothing about the particulars of his character. His likes, his dislikes, his innermost thoughts? All remained a mystery. Glorfindel was truly perplexed – stumped, even, and he did not like feeling so.  
  
Not even five years since the death of Elros, Eärendil had said, and Glorfindel could see where the fractures of that loss still broke through the young soul before him.  
  
_A healer to all but himself_ , Glorfindel thought grimly. Though he wished not to admit it, even to himself, Elwing and Eärendil had damaged their sons more than they could have known with their leaving in such a way . . . And then, afterward, Maglor and Maedhros' abandonment of the twins to Gil-galad's care – even when done in the children's best interest - stung more than Glorfindel thought that Elrond even consciously knew. Galadriel had tried to tell him, in part, when he had first arrived in Lindon – Círdan and Gil-galad too – but Glorfindel had not truly understood their half-words until he truly threw himself into trying to get to know the last Peredhil.  
  
But, he was determined. That determination had gotten him far before, and he intended for it to carry him far again.  
  
The first snow of the season had come to Lindon. Overnight, the snow had blanketing everything from the city to the harbor to the sand dunes which stretched to the sea shore beyond. The ice reached even to the waves, freezing the rolling waters close to the shore while the warmth and movement of the ocean further out refused to be touched. It was, Glorfindel thought, one of the more picturesque scenes he had seen in his long life so far.  
  
And now . . .  
  
“I have been told that it is unhealthy, my fascination with the snow,” he stretched his best smile onto his face, and kept it there. “Once, a friend tried to explain that my love of the winter is a coping mechanism for my days spent on the Ice, but I say that it is a simple appreciation of nature.”  
  
Next to him, Elrond raised a brow – showing a polite interest, as always. “Unhealthy?” he tilted his head. “I do not believe I would call it so, in either instance.”  
  
Glorfindel shrugged. “You shall just have to form your own opinions by the end of the day.”  
  
Wariness now joined the polite interest. Glorfindel shook away the odd feeling he had that he was fighting a battle of blows, rather than friendly exchange of words. He had an irrational moment where he wished that Idril was there with him. She always knew what to say with troubled souls, and she would know . . .  
  
But no.  
  
“Yes,” he answered the unspoken. “I do not wish to spend my first snowfall back in Middle-earth alone, and thus, you shall be required to cater to the eccentric whims of a guest and accompany me.”  
  
Cornered, Elrond had no choice but to follow him, and now, here they were, standing at the top of the snow covered dunes, with sleds in hand. Out of all the things that Maeglin had given to Gondolin, Glorfindel was glad to see that his design had survived through the centuries – elsewise, they would have had to use the lids from the barrels on the docks – or their shields, though that hadn't gone so very well the first time he had tried . . .  
  
His thoughts were distracting him. He set them aside, nearly giddy as he positioned his sled on the slope, ready to -  
  
“I must confess that I do not quite see the point.”  
  
Glorfindel fought the urge to sigh. “The point,” he said gently, “is to have _fun_. You do so for the simple enjoyment of doing so. One cannot simply find ones pleasure in books, after all.”  
  
Elrond's look dipped, just slightly, “I do not - ” he started to protest, but Glorfindel interrupted.  
  
“ - do you have one silly lay about singing trolls, or a fanciful tale of adventure in those dusty old tomes you pour through?” Glorfindel waited. “No. I thought as much. A scholar's activities – a healer's gift - both do much to give one a sense of self. They strengthen the spirit, but they will do nothing to a mind already burdened down and weary. Do you see the difference?”  
  
“I think, I see what you try to say,” Elrond said slowly. He looked down at the sled on the snow, and then the hill itself. His gaze was still dubious.  
  
Glorfindel counted to ten. “I did this with your father, years ago,” Glorfindel tried to take another route. “He was very young then, but it was something he remembered, even in Aman. I am . . . it pains me that I was not there to do so with you.”  
  
A moment passed. He knew that he had caught the other off guard when Elrond opened his mouth and then closed it, as if unsure of what to say. “Sometimes,” he said slowly. “Life does not go the way we would wish for it to.”  
  
And Glorfindel had had it. With a speed born of centuries upon more battlefields than he could count, he reached out, and pushed the other over. Elrond landed on the sled with a surprised look on his face that Glorfindel would remember for _years_ to come, and then he kicked the sled down the hill. The Peredhel's reflexes kicked in, and he righted himself as the sled picked up speed, and with a shout of his own, Glorfindel followed him down the dune. The sea and the horizon beyond blurred together as he sent up a shower of snow in his path, laughing madly for the sheer joy of doing so.  
  
By the time he landed, Elrond was already on his feet and righting himself. Though he tried to give off the air of one much put upon, a smile clung to the corner of his mouth. Glorfindel gave his own smile widely in reply.  
  
“There!” he exclaimed. “You _do_ know how to smile. You know, you look like Turgon when you do so,” Glorfindel added after a moment. He shivered at the uncanny resemblance, feeling as if he looked upon a ghost.  
  
“Turgon,” Elrond said the name softly, thoughtfully. It hurt, Glorfindel thought, the way he said the names of family as if they were merely figures from a tale. Characters from the histories he studied. “My great-grandfather,” Elrond said again, as if trying to make the name something real to him. “ _Turgon_.”  
  
He looked back up the hill. Slowly, he relaxed his hands from where they had made fists at his side. Elrond met his gaze, and then held it. “Could you . . .” he asked slowly. “Could you tell me more?”  
  
Gone in his voice was the bland politeness of court. Glorfindel listened, and thought he could hear _Elrond_ there, for the first.  
  
He reached down, and picked up his sled, oddly touched. He felt triumph fill his lungs.  
  
“It would be my honor,” Glorfindel answered warmly. “Tell me, what would you want to know first?”  
  
.

.  
  
**Snowball**  
  
The further and further north they went in the mountains, the colder it became. But with Sauron's unholy forces pushing in on them from the south, and the combined host of Elrond's army from Lindon and the remnants of Celeborn's men from Eregion just barely limping along . . . they needed a place where they could regroup for the winter. A place where they could regain their strength and plan their reply to the Dark Maia in full.  
  
So far, they had been following the cries of the Eagles overhead, listening for their caws and trusting that the voice of Manwë was guiding them. In the shadows of the crags, Glorfindel could feel a familiar light cling to his skin, brightening the dreary winter-land around them.  
  
At his side, he was joined by a scout named Erestor. As a son of Fëanorian supporters – even Fëanorians who had not participated in the Kinslayings, Erestor had found life in Lindon to be stiffling and had joined the exodus to Eregion those long years ago. A scholar and a minstrel over a craftsman, he had carefully chronicled the days of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and had been the messenger sent to Lindon when news of Annatar's true nature was revealed.  
  
Erestor knew these mountains much better than Glorfindel did, and so, Elrond had sent the two of them on ahead to find a place in the mountains to hide. They looked for a place of rest, and peace . . .  
  
And, until that place was found, Glorfindel was enjoying getting to know his companion in full. With his dark hair and pale skin – and prickly character to boot, he reminded him almost painfully of Ecthelion. The resemblance alone was enough to earn his almost immediate affection, but Erestor, on the other hand . . .  
  
Well, Glorfindel reasoned, he was used to fighting long battles with closely introverted individuals. This would be no different.  
  
Right now, he was whistling as they picked through the mountain path, every note causing his companion to turn more and more tense with annoyance.  
  
“Every Orc in the mountain will hear us with you causing such a ruckus,” Erestor said in a dry tone.  
  
“Nonsense,” Glorfindel replied, gesturing up at the Eagles circling overhead. “No dark thing will dare go near them. We are quite safe beneath the shadow of Manwë.”  
  
“You would say so,” Erestor said wryly, but without much venom. Glorfindel imagined it was because he had stopped whistling in order to speak. “Did an Eagle not carry you back after your duel with the Balrog?” he asked, his voice turning with curiosity.  
  
Glorfindel rolled his shoulders. “So I am told, I was not quite . . . there myself at the time,” his smile was more of a grimace, and Erestor had the decency to flush, realizing what memories his words must have brought back. Glorfindel waved a hand, not wishing for the nearly-friendly conversation between them to turn south again. “It is my one wish for this life – to fly with one of the Eagles, while still alive and able to remember doing so.”  
  
Erestor raised a brow, but there was not quite the same amount of annoyance there as there would have been before.  
  
“Come now,” Glorfindel said to the look. “Do you not have any impossible dreams?”  
  
“Right now,” Erestor said, “My dearest dream is to be somewhere warm, and safe.”  
  
How very . . . uninspired.  
  
Glorfindel raised a brow as Erestor went by him on the path, feeling his bones itch with the urge for movement. Feeling his mouth turn, Glorfindel reached down to gather a ball of snow in his hands, suddenly inspired. Packing the snow together, he then _threw_ , and felt satisfaction burst within him when the snow shattered across the other's back in an explosion of white.  
  
Erestor stiffened, turning behind him with a look of red anger upon his face. “Was that you?” he asked - rather stupidly, Glorfindel thought. For there was no one else on the path.  
  
Glorfindel tried hard not to blink. “It was the Eagles,” he said as convincingly as he could, and just like that, the ire broke from Erestor. His face contorted oddly, as if he were trying not to smile. Glorfindel waited for it, but -  
  
Overhead, an Eagle called. There was an urgency to the tone, and they _knew_ . . .  
  
“There,” Glorfindel said. “There is a parting in the rock.”  
  
They ran forward, careful of the ice over the steep cliffs. The Eagles were lower now, flying in urgent circles as their golden brown wings reflected the sunlight. They called, and _there_ -  
  
A valley of falling water came into view, perfectly hidden in the mountains. Waterfalls played and rivers sung, each paying homage to the beauty of the mountains and the great sky above, and -  
  
Glorfindel felt his heart catch at the beauty in the valley. There was _magic_ here, flowing from water and stone and branch. For a moment, he could not breathe.  
  
“Some place warm and safe,” he clapped Erestor on the back. “I do believe that you have found your wish, my friend.”  
  
.

.  
  
**Snowman**  
  
Near the front gate of the valley, a small child waited.  
  
All in the household would pass the balconies that would let them glance in on the little girl and her steady vigil, smiling fondly in amusement as they looked down. Many stopped to make sure that Arwen was comfortable, bringing blankets and refreshing her mug of hot tea to ward against the chill in the air. Celebrían had tried to talk her daughter into waiting inside, but Arwen would hear nothing of it – and finally, after drawing a promise that inside she would go once the sun started to set, Arwen settled back in. Her young eyes were set solemnly on the gap in the pass – where her brothers would appear at any moment, returning home for the winter from where they had ridden out with the Dúnedain earlier in the summer.  
  
Glorfindel watched the child with a fondness in his heart that he had not felt since Idril was that age, running about underfoot and trailing giggles in her wake. The girl moved with a grace beyond her years, and already her eyes were old and wise. But Arwen was still a child, with a child's needs, and so he came down with one of his thickest cloaks, and placed it over her small shoulders before she could protest.  
  
“It is okay to be cold,” he said easily, his breath frosting on the air between them. “I get cold quite easily myself,” he leaned in close to say so, as if he were telling a secret of great importance.  
  
Arwen's grey eyes widened, just slightly about the edges. “But I thought that you loved the snow?” she said, puzzling through the two seemingly contradictory pieces of information in her mind.  
  
“Indeed, I do love the snow,” Glorfindel said. “It does not mean that I am immune to the cold.”  
  
“Ah,” Arwen said simply, her head tilted as she processed what she had learned – a motion that was so very _Elrond_ that Glorfindel had to tuck his smile aside.  
  
He sat down next to her on the bench – which had been cleared of snow, even though the white powder fairly clung to everything else. Her eyes had turned faithfully back to the pass, ever waiting. Her small shoulders were tense, her happy mouth unsmiling.  
  
“I worry about them as well,” Glorfindel said softly. “I do not like it when they go past where I can see - and this is the first time that they have ridden from the valley when not underneath my protection.”  
  
Arwen blinked, and looked over at him. “They ride with the sons of Men now,” she said, setting her jaw. Her eyes flashed for a moment – a child's alignment of her missing her brothers given to the only thing she could think to assign blame.  
  
“Indeed, the Dúnedain are valiant and worthy men all. Your brothers will learn much from their ways,” Glorfindel chided gently. “And the Dúnedain are very distant kin of yours, as well. You would do well to remember that.”  
  
Arwen took a moment, considering his words, before she nodded her head. Her look was still grim on her face as she stared at the pass.  
  
Glorfindel waited a moment, and then two. “I miss them too, little one.”  
  
Arwen sucked in a breath. Her lower lip wobbled, as if she wished to cry, but was trying not to. “I miss them _dearly_ ,” she said, reaching over to pat his hand as if she were the one offering him comfort, and he felt warmth grow in his heart for the child, touched as he was. “It is better missing them together,” she finally decided.  
  
“They will not be long,” Glorfindel soothed. “The snows came early this year, and that can make traveling in the mountains tricky. They were merely delayed.”  
  
“Yes . . . delayed,” Arwen said, her voice shaped like relief, and Glorfindel grinned.  
  
Looking around the open square of stone – where visitors were normally received, he felt a thought come upon him at the untouched planes of white snow, thinking . . .  
  
When he got up, he started to form a snowball in his hand, and then he rolled the ball on the ground, making it bigger. Arwen looked at him curiously as he did so, her head tilted to the side again.  
  
“Glorfindel, what are you doing?” she asked.  
  
“I am building a snowman,” Glorfindel said. “And you are going to help. We can set them up as sentinels, and they can help us keep watch. How does that sound?”  
  
Arwen looked torn between keeping her eyes on the pass, and joining in on the admittedly more exciting prospect of snowman building.  
  
“I suppose I could help you,” she said carefully. “For a little while, at least.”  
  
“A very little while,” Glorfindel promised, passing his half formed ball of snow to Arwen to finish, while he started on the 'midsection' of the snowman. When their construction took them well into the afternoon – they both grinning and covered in snow – Arwen did not even notice her brothers' returning until they picked her up and spun her about, and her laughter again filled the valley.  
  
.

.  
  
**Snowfall**  
  
It was snowing the day the Fellowship left Imladris.  
  
Glorfindel watched them depart with a weight on his heart, a disquiet in his bones. The land was filled with shadow again, stretched darker and deeper than it had even in the days of Morgoth and his unholy evil. And now, they were sending those dearest and brightest of their kinds to fight that shadow . . .  
  
He made fists of his hands at his side, restless in his own skin. The urge to _do_ more, to _be_ more, clawed at his bones. And yet, he had to remind himself that the days of his kind were coming to an end. This fight belonged to Men in its heaviest of ways. And so, it was Men who would bring the Dark One to his knees. Men . . . and the gentle souled halfling who carried Sauron's greatest weapon about his neck.  
  
Would that he could carry this burden for Frodo, he thought – would that any of them could. And yet, it was Frodo's to carry, and he was left here waiting.  
  
Waiting . . . and watching the life he had come to hold dear unravel around him. Most of the valley prepared to leave. His people would turn towards the Havens and travel West, even if Sauron was defeated. Most would follow their Lord from the valley – for if the Ring was destroyed, the lesser Rings would die as well, and Elrond's fëa was fractured and torn from using Vilya for so many years. He and the Golden Lady both would need the West for healing, for repairing their souls, and they would leave these lands far behind.  
  
And yet, many would stay. Many would stay with their Lord's daughter, stay until the Evenstar passed from the circles of the world, and darkness truly fell upon the lands.  
  
Glorfindel . . . he would stay. He would see Arwen's choice through to the end before returning to the lands of his birth. He had promised her father in all but words that he would do so, and now . . .  
  
Now, Erestor was carefully cataloging the contents of the library, deciding what would go with Arwen to Gondor, and what would cross the sea to Aman. He had a long scroll out in the gardens – he needing the fresh and natural air, even though the snow fell upon the parchment and muddled his words.  
  
“There is so much to do,” Erestor muttered. “No matter how the days to come play out, there is much to plan, much to arrange.” His fingers were white knuckled about the scroll. He too glanced where the company had departed.  
  
In his heart . . . in his heart, Glorfindel knew that Frodo would succeed. He knew that Aragorn would reclaim his birthright, that he and Arwen would wed . . . he knew this the same as he had known that the Witch-king would not fall by the hands of any man, all of those years ago. He was no seer, he had not the touch of the Sight, but he had the light of the Valar in his soul, and he _knew_.  
  
Erestor's thoughts followed much the same, he thought, for he was looking over the gardens with a tired, old look in his eyes. He fiddled with the quill in his hand before setting both aside, suddenly weary.  
  
“Do you ever . . .” he started carefully. “Do you ever regret your choice?” he asked simply. “You could have had a life of your own in Aman, a family even. Now, to return to where darkness so clearly falls . . . over and over again. Do you ever wish you had chosen differently?”  
  
Glorfindel looked, and honestly considered his answer before he gave it. In Aman, he could have married, he could have had children of his own, and yet, he looked . . . He looked, and saw the balcony where Celebrían had asked him for Elrond's hand all of those centuries ago – skewering tradition as she addressed the only 'family' Elrond had this side of the ocean. He looked, and saw the room where he had paced nervously throughout the births of all three children, worry in his throat, even though they were not born of his blood. He looked, and saw where he had taught Elladan and Elrohir the bow, where he had sat in these same gardens and helped Arwen learn the High-tongue, as it was spoken in far Aman . . . He saw, and he _remembered_ . . .  
  
If he had brought even a fraction of light to this darkened world . . . if he had made the light just _that much_ brighter for Turgon's line . . .  
  
Then yes . . .  
  
. . . yes.  
  
“I regret nothing,” he said simply. “And my family is here. All of my family,” he said, looking at Erestor – dear Erestor, who had grown closer to him than any brother of flesh and bone. Erestor, who would go across the ocean with Elrond, and too would be one more soul whom Glorfindel would have to miss and _wait for_.  
  
But, not for much longer, he thought.  
  
When he got to his feet, and turned from the other, he was surprised when he felt a cold ball of snow hit him right between the shoulderblades. He turned behind him, a smile blooming on his face for the other's audacity - for not once in all of their centuries together had Erestor done so. Now, a small smile cracked the corners of his grim facade. His dark eyes were heavy with feeling.  
  
“There is that smile,” Erestor said. “Take care, my friend, to see that it never falls from its place – for it brings light to more than you know.”

.

.

  
**Tradition**  
  
Rare was it when snow fell in Minas Tirith, for Gondor was far to the south, and warm nearly the whole year through. And so, it was when journeying north with Arwen's ever growing family to visit her brothers in Imladris, that her children saw snow for the first time in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  
  
Eldarion was all giggles and unrestrained smiles while he went stomping through the snow as fast as his feet could carry him. He was tall for his ten summers, tripping over his own coltish legs more often than not, but he had determination enough to carry him on, and even falling in the snow brought nothing but more laughter from him.  
  
Younger Amdiriel was slower to follow her brother, instead standing very close to her mother's side and just _looking_ at the snow, as if by doing so, she could force the strange white powder to fade from the strength of her gaze. She was a miniature replica of her mother, with her straight black hair and solemn grey eyes – even the stubborn set to her shoulders was Arwen, and it warmed Glorfindel's heart to see. Arwen herself was glowing with the presence of her family and the cold of the wild both. She would be a mother again soon, he knew, though the new life of her daughter was just flickering in her womb. She had been newly pregnant when they left the White City, and instead of delaying their trip, she had instead decided to bear her next daughter in the home of her childhood, and then return home to Gondor when the babe was strong enough to travel.  
  
Amdiriel took after her mother's people, and was empathetic to the point of the uncanny. She leaned against her mother's side, the tiny point of her ear nearly pressed to her mother's stomach in her wish to constantly be near to the little soul developing within. Eldarion understood the concept of another sister only in the broadest of terms, he being – as Amdiriel put it so eloquently – more Troll-brained than anything else. But he understood that something special was happening, and that his family was to grow again, and for that the boy was all smiles and joy.  
  
Where the hills became steep enough for sledding, Aragorn was the one to take the lead in instructing his children on the unparalleled joy of the winter's activities. Both fatherhood and kingship had settled well on Aragorn's shoulders – as everything he had once clawed for in life now his to enjoy in peace and prosperity. Glorfindel was proud of the man Estel had become – so far from the eager little boy they had once called Hope, running barefoot through the halls of Elrond. His family had done much to take the grim lines from his face, and while still solemn, there was a smile on Aragorn's face more often than not – especially when in the company of his family and none other.  
  
“Now,” Aragorn was explaining in a solemn voice – even Amdiriel braving the snow to listen reverently at her father's side. “This is a most honored and sacred of traditions amongst your mother's people. Since the noon-time of the First Age, when the Elves of Gondolin looked for sport in the cold mountain ways, they have known this art, and perfected it throughout the centuries. You must pay the utmost attention, children, and when the day comes, pass this on, so it may never be forgotten.”  
  
Eldarion was nodding gravely, taking in everything his father said as Aragorn pushed him down the hill, and then the little boy was laughing as the wind caught in his hair and the snow burst up in waves of white to cover him. His shrieks of delight startled the birds from the trees, but they too called as if in laughter, catching on the mirth of the family below.  
  
Little Amdiriel did not look at all like the sledding was something she wished to do, but rather than return to Arwen's side, she turned to him, and said most seriously. “Lord Glorfindel, if you would not mind accompanying me, I do believe I should be less afraid if we were to go together.”  
  
He scooped the little girl up, and walked to the sled, slowing his step when her fingers were white about the fur lining of his cloak.  
  
“Little one,” he said warmly, “It would be my honor.”  
  
While Amdiriel's cries turned from fear to laughter on their way down the hill, she was still weak at the knees when they walked back up the slope. Laughing, she fell down in the snow and daintily proclaimed, “A most glorious of traditions it is, but if you would not mind, I would rather build a snowman instead.”

**.  
**

**.  
**

**Holiday**  
  
Somehow, when he was not looking, time had passed him by.  
  
He felt old in his bones, stretched and worn thin – as if his skin was parchment, covering up the ever-heat of his soul. He was one of the last ones of his kind left on these shores. The Elves of the West had long since returned home, and the children of the forest faded more and more to spirits and legends. Someday, they would be nothing but stories to the sons of Men. Stories and songs.  
  
And he . . .  
  
It was time for him to return home.  
  
Aragorn had laid down his life in death with the last days of autumn. His had been a long life, duly blessed, but it was still a mortal's life, with a mortal's allotment of time, and now he breathed no more. Arwen's grief was great at her husband's passing, but it was as Elrond had foretold all those days ago. Her spirit was still of many years, elven down to her bones, and her grief and pain would have to forcibly push the last breath from her body. There would be no ease of passing for her, no comfort until she found the veils of mortal death, and until then . . . He would follow her, and when her last breath left, he would return West from whence he came, and bow before his Lord, declaring his duty long served and done.  
  
Celeborn and the twins already followed her, and Glorfindel could linger no more. He had to go, he had to follow . . . he had promised her father. He swore an oath to Turgon long ago . . .  
  
“So it is true. You too are leaving us.”  
  
Glorfindel looked to the doors of his rooms, to see Tinúviel standing right within. The daughter of Amdiriel's daughter, she appeared older than her sixteen years would seem; older and wiser both. But her grief was great for the loss of her family, and her eyes were red and raw.  
  
So many generations, Glorfindel thought . . . how quickly the sons of Men moved through time, and while he considered himself blessed to have known and loved so many of Aragorn's line, he was also tired . . . so very tired. He did not know how he would be able to watch Amdiriel die. And then her children . . . and her children's children. He was strong enough for many things, but not for that.  
  
And so, he would not stay until then. He would keep to his memory how they were now, until, someday . . .  
  
“Child, you know why I must go,” he said gently.  
  
She shook her head, her black hair a halo about her face. “No, I do not,” she said simply. “Aragorn lies in death, but his son does not. Eldarion needs you . . . mother needs you . . . _I_ need you. You cannot yet go.”  
  
“Eldarion is a strong man, and he will be a strong king,” Glorfindel said gently. “He needs nothing from me. And I will miss you as much as you shall me. Believe me when I say that I will keep your memory with me throughout all of my days.”  
  
“And that is just the point,” Tinúviel said. “You go where we cannot follow. You go West where we can never go . . . Where we will never see you again.” Her voice broke at the end, a dry sound of grief.  
  
He placed down the pack he had been putting together, and opened his arms to her. She answered wordlessly, burrowing into his embrace and resting her head against his chest. Her tears warmed the fabric of his tunic. He felt the light of his fëa waver at her pain, and he wondered it he could hold on a little bit longer against the sea-longing deep within him. He wondered . . . but no.  
  
“It is said,” Glorfindel whispered gently, “That not even the Wise know where the sons of Men go after death. That only Eru himself knows, and Mandos too. And yet, there are whispers, that beyond the circles of time . . . at the breaking of the world, when it is forged anew, that those of all kindreds will meet again. That there will be a reunion, greater than any other. A gift from the One to his children who have lived so long beneath shadow and darkness.”  
  
“That is nothing but silly whispers,” Tinúviel said in a small voice. “A child's tale, told to make those with fewer years more at ease with their allotment of time.”  
  
“And yet,” Glorfindel countered gently. “I do not think so. I have died once before; I now live again. Anything is possible, and I . . . I have forever to wait. Forever to wait and remember you - remember _all_ of you.”  
  
“All of us?” she whispered brokenly.  
  
“All of you,” he said, closing his own eyes against his grief. “No matter how long it takes, I will remember you and keep that memory dear.”  
  
“And you . . . you truly believe that?” she asked. Her voice was a small, hopeful thing. “You truly believe that there is a hope . . . beyond time . . . beyond this world's end?”  
  
He drew away just enough to tilt her chin up. He looked, and let her see the light of Aman in his eyes – a memory of the Trees themselves in their days of glory. He knew he carried the light of his spirit on his skin – a final offering of his tired and battered soul to the grieving mortal girl before him. “Yes, child, I do. With all of my heart.”  
  
He watched her as she swallowed; as she grasped upon his strength and made it her own. “Then,” she said, and her voice was stronger when she spoke. “I shall treat this as a holiday. You go away for a short time, but we shall see you again.”  
  
“Sooner than you would think,” he forced a smile to his face – one last time, for this daughter of his Lord's blood. “Sooner than a blinking.”  
  
“Until then,” Tinúviel turned into his embrace, and he returned it. He memorized the shape of her form, the texture of her hair.  
  
“Indeed, dear one,” Glorfindel agreed, and his voice was as a promise. “Until then.”  
  
. . . until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Amdiriel & Tinúviel**: Both are names I gave; Amdiriel means 'daughter of hope', and Tinúviel is a throw-back to Lúthien.  
>  **Glorfindel x2** : Yes! I subscribe to the theory that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell are one and the same. He is the perfect embodiment of the Lancelot-ideal this way, and I love this version of his character to pieces.  
>  **Names in Quenya** : I did not bother translating Glorfindel and Ecthelion's names in the first drabble for fear of butchering the Quenya, but that probably helped reader understanding anyway - so, no harm, no foul. ;)


	12. "so there will be no forgetting"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo & Glorfindel & Thorin || Prompt: _Tale, Telling_ , Free-write

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written on the wings of the last entry, and due, in part, to my very, _very_ mixed feelings on TDOS. What are you doing, Jackson? You are breaking my heart here. :( 
> 
> And, my notes for this one are brief . . .
> 
>  **Orcrist** : The sword's ownership is pretty much narrowed down to Eglamoth or Ecthelion. I subscribe to the later, just for the simple reason that Eglamoth survived the Fall of Gondolin, and was later killed at the Third Kinslaying in Sirion. If the blade was Ecthelion's, the sword would have been 'near' Turgon's, and they could have washed up together in the Third Age. That, and it fits what I am writing, so there, I twist canon to suit my own ends. ;) Bilbo's 'sword' belonging to Glorfindel is only fan theory, but a theory I love.

**Tale**  
  
_Magic_ , Gandalf had said when they entered the valley, but Bilbo Baggins was quite certain that the Grey Wizard was mistaken. For _this_ had to be more than even that. Magic was fireworks in the night skies and smoke rings taking the shapes of ships with their elegant sails. Magic was bright lights and midsummers eves' and the crossings in the paths. This that he felt around him? This was _peace_ , settling in him soul deep. This was stories made flesh, all the laughter of water and the power music held when it sung of histories true and told, and he . . .  
  
Bilbo was, in a word, quite smitten as he roamed the halls on silent feet while his companions caused a ruckus elsewhere. He touched elegant carvings of vine and stone as he passed, he thumbed throught the pages of ancient tomes even older than he – some were older than the Shire even. And at the realization he had stared, entranced.  
  
Now, he had stopped before a wall, a wall covered in a great mural of a creature, tall and dark, who wore a golden ring on his finger. The small band was a flame in a dark place, blazing with power even when caught in an artist's thrall. Bilbo gazed curiously at the monster with the ring, his own fingers whispering as with a ghost of sensation, even though he himself wore no such adornment.  
  
_Curious_ , he thought, and that too he attributed to the magic of the land.  
  
Next to the mural, there was a pedestal, upon which there was a great sword; laying in two massive pieces, its strong blade rent in a jagged line down the middle. Bilbo paused, wondering how mighty the blow must have been to break such a blade – for he could feel an enchantment in the sword before him, an enchantment of hewn earth and the bite of the forge – a sensation he at times felt amongst his companions, though the aura was often fleeting, as a whisper.  
  
He reached out to touch it, when -  
  
“Be careful, Master-hobbit,” came a warm voice from the entrance to the room. The voice was a musical voice, one which Bilbo felt in his bones rather than heard in his ears. “Long has Narsil laid broken, but her edges are still sharp to the touch.”  
  
“Narsil,” Bilbo rolled the name on the back of his tongue, as he would a particularly fine wine. It was, he thought, a fitting name. _Sun and moon,_ he knew from his growing grasp on the Elven tongue. Now that he looked for it, he could see the light of both - dully glowing, even when the sword was broken and at rest.  
  
“Narsil, wielded last by Elendil, one of the last sons of the starlit-lands and first King of the Dúnedain,” the voice continued, coming closer. “In the First Age, it was forged by the great Dwarf-smith Telchar, at the bidding of Azaghâl his king. The sword was to be a gift for Maedhros Fëanorian, for he saved the life of Azaghâl when he was waylaid by Orcs on the great Dwarf-road. Maedhros in turn, gave the sword to his brother, and Maglor Fëanorian later gifted the sword in parting to his ward, Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first King of Númenor, and a great leader of Men. The sword has protected that line ever since, and now waits to be forged again – when the hands waiting to hold it are ready to do so.”  
  
The names tickled at the back of Bilbo's mind, tugging on stories his mother had told in days long past. He looked up to see who his companion was, and saw a tall elf – no surprise there, Bilbo thought, for they were all quite tall about him. Instead of the dark hair most in the valley had, this elf seemingly wore the sunlight atop his head. Bilbo thought first of the Wood-elves with the shade, but no . . . there was something different about him. Something that was _more_.  
  
The elf's eyes were eerily bright, Bilbo thought. As if he had looked on the sun when standing very near to it, and took a bit of that brilliance with him when he turned away.  
  
“It's a great story,” Bilbo said, his fingers still resting above Narsil's blade. Carefully, he did not touch it. A part of him knew that the blade was not his to hold, and the sword welcomed him not. “It seems as if every sword we run into has a great tale behind it.” Bilbo let his right hand tap his at the hilt of his own 'sword', ever curious as he was by the elegant little blade.  
  
“Ah,” the elf said slowly. “The swords of Gondolin.”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo inclined his head. “Glamdring? Your lord named the one. And . . . Orist? Ocrast was the other?”  
  
“Orcrist,” the stranger rolled the name from his tongue with the ease of long familiarity. A small smile tugged at his face, sad in shape, and Bilbo wondered at it. “The sword's name was Orcrist.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Bilbo bounced on the balls of his feet. “Orcrist - that's the one.”  
  
The elf shook his head, bemusement touching his face. “How odd, that they should now appear in a troll horde, of all places. Ah, but to see his face when I tell him so . . .” his voice was absent as he said so, as if he spoke to a ghost in the room. Bilbo knew that the other was far from him in that moment, before he blinked, turning back to Bilbo again. “It is against odds,” he said carefully, “but I would ask of a dagger which went with the set. A short blade,” he held his hands apart to demonstrate, “who was made as a companion to the swords in their forging.”  
  
Bilbo's fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword – which an elf very much would call a dagger, he thought. A long knife . . .  
  
Slowly, carefully, he drew the blade free, and watched as the elf's eyes followed it. There was a flickering in the brightness of his eyes. Bilbo looked, and thought that – for that moment, the elf did not breathe.  
  
“Then it's not a letter opener?” Bilbo said with a half smile as he passed it to the elf's reverent hands.  
  
“Indeed not,” the elf answered, bemused.  
  
“Then, does it . . .” Bilbo asked, hoping . . .  
  
“No,” the elf shook his head. “It has naught of a name, merely memories. When they named Ecthelion's ridiculous blade for slaying a thousand necks, I had wagered that I could slay more with this dagger alone than he could with his curved sword during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I came close, even though he would never admit it. But at the end of that battle, there was no jesting between comrades, nor rejoicing in feast and song. Merely tears.”  
  
Bilbo blinked, trying to understand the tenses the elf spoke with. He spoke as if . . .  
  
“Then you knew who owned - ” he did he math. He adjusted his words. “Forgive me, _y_ _ou_ _owned_ this blade . . . sometimes it is easy to forget, the agelessness of the Elves.”  
  
“Agelessness,” the elf turned the word over thoughtfully. He smiled a smile Bilbo could not quite put his finger on. “Yes, you could call it as such.”  
  
The elf went to give the blade back, but Bilbo held up a hand. “No,” he said. “It was yours, was it not? I would not -”  
  
“It has not been mine for many centuries,” the elf said easily. “And swords choose their wielders. This blade will do much in your hands, Master Baggins, and I would not take that away. Even though,” he allowed a small smile to touch his mouth, “I do imagine that Ecthelion would have scowled to see his sword in your leader's hands . . . And yet, it is fitting. There is a certain stubbornness about them both, a certain strength of spirit that the sword would answer to.”  
  
“Strength of spirit,” Bilbo repeated wryly – as if such words could so easily surmise Thorin and his determination. Thorin and his hunger. “And yet . . .” he swallowed. He looked to the west, where he knew the Shire rested in its green cradle of hills and bubbling blue streams. “Sometimes, I do not feel as if I am meant to do such things. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not I am even meant to be here, or if I had a moment of Took-ishness that I shall forever regret . . .”  
  
The elf too looked west, and the bright light in his gaze seemed to glow then. In a queer way, Bilbo thought that the ancient and ethereal being before him understood his small worries. His unease and fear.  
  
“The Valar choose their vessels wisely,” was all he said. “You give yourself too little credit for your path.”  
  
Bilbo bit his lip. He took the dagger – his _sword_ – and tried to fight away just how foreign the blade felt in his hands.  
  
The elf noticed, Bilbo thought. He set his jaw thoughtfully as he leaned forward, as if preparing to impart a secret. “You seem to have an ear for stories,” the elf said. “If you would, I would tell you a tale now, of a youth who made a very big decision – in the days when there was no light, for the Trees' had been felled and the Sun and Moon had not yet arisen in the sky. A tale of an elf, who wished to serve his kinsman and lord . . .”

.

.  
  
**Telling**  
  
During their first night away from Rivendell, the terrain leveled out enough for them to camp on a small landing in the mountains. Their location was better than some they had spent the night in before, the clearing being both easy enough to defend, and spacious enough so that they did not need to worry for rolling the wrong way in the night to a long and final drop.  
  
With an ease that would have one time shocked him, Bilbo unpacked his place for the night, and then moved to help prepare the evening meal. Used to dining at full tables with food aplenty for the past two weeks, they were not quite ready to part from the fullness of their bellies, and so, Bilbo was elected to make his stew that night – cooking the hares that the youngest two dwarves caught with the ease of long familiarity. If there was anything a Hobbit was adept at, it was preparing supper, he thought. His neighbors would have been scandalized by how thin and . . . rugged, he had become over the trip thus far, he having gone so long without second breakfast . . . afternoon tea . . . dinner _and_ supper . . .  
  
His stomach rumbled, and that too Bilbo ignored. The wild was no such place for indulgences, and he had learned to do well without a great many things.  
  
With their quest again underway, the company of Thorin was a merry gathering that night. The dwarves sung, Bofur leading them more often than not with his rowdy tunes and creative lyrics - most of which he improvised on the spot before encouraging others to do the same. After Bofur's songs quieted down, Balin took over, telling tales from Erebor in the mountain's days of glory. That night, he told a story of the royal family – mischief that Thorin had got into with his siblings Frerin and Dís, when they had journeyed beyond the mountain halls and stumbled upon children from Dale, and the ensuing chaos that day had then caused. Bilbo smiled mightily at the stories, amused to see their infallible leader as something young and curious and very . . . well, _not Thorin_. Afterward, Thorin scowled and asked the elderly dwarf why he delighted in shaming him, but there was fondness in his eyes when he did so.  
  
When Balin's tale was over, and they were scraping the last of their supper from their bowls, Bofur turned to him and asked for his stories. Early on in their quest, his talent with lays and tales had gone noticed, and ever since then they had asked him for tales around the campfire. Bilbo answered readily enough, speaking the same stories his mother had once told him, or giving more fanciable anecdotes from the Shire. Though shenanigans with crops and fields did not interest the dwarves so much, Belladonna Took's tales kept them much interested indeed, and yet, tonight . . .  
  
Each night, while his companions had gone their own ways and kept to their own company, Bilbo had sat in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, listening to the songs and stories told there. The Elves, with their years and _forever_ before them were careful to forget nothing, to remember all through songs and lyric, and Bilbo had listened to their stories, enraptured. There was one particular song – a song that all would pause to listen to when Lindir would pick up his harp, a solemn respect for the characters within that had touched Bilbo, a story of . . .  
  
He was no minstrel. He had no talent with voice or song, but Bilbo could tell stories. And so he whispered the Lay of Lúthien in a solemn voice fit for the epic deeds of old. He told of Beren the mortal-man, who won the heart of the fairest maiden ever born, and the trials and tribulations of their love. He looked, but instead of seeing the same feeling of enraptured sadness the story had first given him, he saw indifferent faces all. Some even turned down in distaste. Óin pointedly took out his ear piece, and smirked when others snickered at his actions.  
  
It was when he was repeating the words Lúthien sang to Death himself that Bofur got up and took over for him – making light of Lúthien's plight, turning the beautiful words into something of jest and parody. The other dwarves laughed and joined in with the refrain, catching up on the rhythm and turning the tale into a mummer's farce. _A joke._  
  
When Bofur's lyrics took a turn towards the insinuating, Bilbo stood, insulted for the memory of those the song was supposed to represent.  
  
“For shame!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger towards the ground and stomping his foot with his pique. “You should all be _ashamed_ of yourselves.”  
  
“Oh, sit down Master-baggins,” Bofur was still laughing. He threw the last bit of his bread roll at him – affection, Bilbo knew from his time spent with the Dwarves, and yet he was not appeased. “It was all a bit of fun.”  
  
“And a great fun it was,” Glóin added, still chortling at the last of the lyrics. “It was the best part of the tale yet.”  
  
Bilbo gazed at them, floored. “So, that is the way of it. The Elves remember your ancient tongues when you yourselves have all but forgotten them, and you go to them to read your map. You accept their hospitality - eat their food, steal their trinkets,” he rounded on a dwarf who was about to protest. “Oh yes, don't think I didn't notice your _souvenirs_. You wield their weapons as your own, but you cannot acknowledge that there is even the smallest bit of beauty in Lúthien's tale?”  
  
He waited a moment. No one answered.  
  
“That,” he said slowly. “Is unfortunate.” He fisted his hands at his sides then, so that no one could tell the way they shook. He felt that queasy feeling in his stomach that said that he would soon feel faint, but he pushed it aside. He was going to be _brave_. He let the Took in him speak, and the Baggins in him lay aside.  
  
When Thorin rose to his feet, his clear blue eyes were dark. Bilbo thought about shadow beneath the mountain and the stone womb of the world when seeing the would be Dwarf-king as such, and he squared his jaw at the untouchable strength of the earth itself. “You speak,” Thorin said lowly – dangerously, Bilbo knew, “Of that which you do not know.”  
  
“Don't I?” Bilbo replied. “You were wronged once before, that I know.” He saw eyes of stone around him. “Balin told me the tale, and that I do not try to speak against, or cast aside. I understand your anger; I acknowledge your cause for it. I am simply trying to say that this world would be a better place – a happier place - if you did not assign the blame for a few on the whole. It is a failing, too, that those who wronged you place at your own door, is it not?”  
  
For oh, he _knew_ how Lúthien's kin found their end – her father, the Elven-king of Doriath dead by dwarvish hands for the Silmaril set within its necklace of starlit stones, along with so many others before Beren the One-handed found the dwarves of Nogrod and took from them a payment of blood in kind.  
  
Silence met him. Thorin turned, his jaw a hooked line on his face. “I have lost my taste for tales this eve,” and he turned away from him.  
  
“What if,” he called after him, even though the Baggins within him was telling him to _sit down_. To sit down, and _be silent_. “What if I told you that I had a story about the sword at your side? The elf who wielded it – he was a bit like you, you know. He died facing a creature of flame so that his people would live. He sacrificed himself for something that he believed in . . . and when I heard it, I thought that that sounded an awful lot like something you would do. If it ever came between the dragon and the lives of your kin . . . I think I know what decision you would make. Swords choose their owners, you know, and that sword chose _you_ for a reason.”  
  
For a moment, Thorin stopped. Bilbo thought that he had reached him, that he had _touched_ something, and yet -  
  
Thorin kept his back turned, and took his place at the farthest edge of the clearing. Near to the edge of the mountainside.  
  
And Bilbo sighed through his mouth, frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair, while the Baggins in him asked if he could simply _sit down now_. _Please_.  
  
Kíli, who had been strangely silent throughout the whole of Bofur's impromptu song and the tense exchange of words that had followed, looked at Bilbo. Slowly . . . he nodded. “I would hear the tale of Uncle's sword, if you would tell it,” he said. His voice was at first shaped like a question, but it became stronger at the end. A certainty.  
  
Fíli looked at his brother, and then at Bilbo. Very carefully, he did not look in his uncle's direction. “I would too.”  
  
A moment passed, and then: “You had me from the beginning, laddie. Carry on,” Balin said gently, and Bilbo saw an understanding in his old eyes . . . a sadness as he glanced at the untouchable set of Thorin's shoulders. The finality in his turned back.  
  
“It went,” Bilbo gathered his courage, letting his voice rise so that it would carry. So that _all_ would hear. “Something like this . . .”


	13. "so sweetly pressed"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon & Idril || Prompt: _Hidden_ , Free-write

  
**Hidden**  
  
Years ago, he had been shown a vision from Ulmo, of high white walls and a valley unseen from the outside world. While his motives in building Gondolin were at first imposed by the wisdom of the Valar, his reasons had been more personal than even that. For he had not even reached the shores of Endórë before the land took much from him, before the land took all but for the child his daughter had been, wide eyed and stone jawed as they at last stood upon the land they had struggled for so long to reach.  
  
And yet, white walls and encircling mountains had not been enough to protect his daughter from every pain, Turgon now saw. For, no matter how well hidden, love had found her, and now . . .  
  
“He has asked for my hand,” Idril said softly, gently. They stood upon the uppermost balcony in the King's tower. The wind from the mountains was still warm with the last days of summer, but there was a chill underneath, promising the winter to come. “He wants to marry me, Atar, and I . . .”  
  
This, Turgon knew. Tuor had come to him not even days earlier to ask the wish of his heart, and Turgon had been silent for a long, long time before replying. He had denied nothing to Tuor thus far, and who was he to start with his daughter's hand? _If she loves you, if she deems that love strong enough to endure all that would befall you, then yes . . . not even this would I hold from Huor's son, the greatest gift I have within me to give._  
  
His daughter.  
  
His Itarillë . . .  
  
Now Idril was silent and pensive before him. Her clear eyes looked beyond the mountains as the wind played with the long tresses of her hair, and yet, that was the only movement about her. She was impossibly still before him – immortal to the marrow of her bones, and Tuor . . .  
  
Tuor would die, he knew. Tuor would join in the ever-sleep of his forefathers, and Idril would live. Live on and on as his body returned to the earth and his spirit to the One who had begotten him.  
  
“What do you See?” he asked gently, for Idril had the gift of the uncanny about her. She was able to spy out the Song of the world even before it unfolded, and he had learned through tragedy to trust the wisdom of her visions.  
  
 _Aredhel, do not go, for you shall not return as you are now,_ Idril had once pleaded. _What can touch me on this earth, child?_ Aredhel had asked, her sharp eyes those of a hunting creature. And yet, the woman who returned to them so many years later had not been Aredhel the White but rather a tired and pale woman jumping at shadows. _We should not cross the Ice, for Amil does not like to swim_ , Idril had been little more than a child with few words to shape her fears then, only clinging to her father's robes with white hands as they took those first steps and he felt her heart jump in her chest with a fear like none other. _Do not worry, little one, for I am scared as well_ , Turgon had then soothed, for he had not _understood_.  
  
And Idril had first seen Tuor Ulmo's-voice, and whispered, _Atar,_ _he shall be the death of me_.  
  
“I see starlight, of all things,” she answered after a pause, “I see a sea of heaven and a ship that navigates the stars. I see a great white bird on the ocean waves . . . and _time_ . . . so much of it. I see Tuor with his white brow creased by age and his eyes heavy with mortality, and yet when he kisses the back of my hand I still feel my heart soar with love for him. I do not . . . I wish . . .”  
  
 _For impossible things_ , Turgon understood. He remembered clawing at the Ice, and pleading . . .  
  
His own heart was troubled in his chest. He could not stop its restless turn. Finally, Idril turned her eyes to him. She had come near to a decision, he knew. She knew her heart, she only needed that last push to accept its beat. To live with its pulse.  
  
“If . . .” she started slowly, carefully. “If your time with mother was all that you were allotted . . . If you did not have the hope of someday seeing her again, if your time to love was all you would know for all of your days . . . Would it have been worth it? Would the pain you knew after make the joy before all but meaningless?”  
  
For Idril would be no Lúthien with her enchanted choice. She would watch Tuor grow old and die, and live out the vast Ages of the world alone, her soul still tied to his past where the Mortal-men went with their deaths. Her choice would be final, and yet, until the day of Tuor's end, his daughter would know joy. She would know love, soul deep and true.  
  
He thought of Elenwë then. He remembered the light in her eyes when they said their vows beneath the light of the Trees'. He remembered their joy as he watched her stomach quicken with life, as he felt his mind fill with the warmth of his wife and the first stirrings of his daughter's soul. He remembered Elenwë's hand in his own when there was no light to see by; no Tree nor sun nor moon. She had been strong then, so impossibly strong. _We will go with you_ , she had vowed, determination flaring in her eyes like a memory of the light itself. He remembered being both awed at her courage and humbled at her resolve. He remembered feeling so very full with his love for her, so much so that there were times when he wondered how he did not burst from feeling so.  
  
And then . . . he remembered the Ice swallowing both his wife and child in one fell swoop. He remembered Elenwë's desperation to push their daughter into Glorfindel's hold, caring not of her own peril so long as Idril lived, so long as Idril _breathed_. He remembered the cold waters swallowing him as he followed, as he reached and reached and _reached_ until Fingon finally pulled him back kicking and biting at his hold. _It is useless, brother,_ Fingon had tried desperately to calm him. _B_ _rother, I am so sorry_. _So very sorry - little one, come away from there. Your fingers are bleeding – brother!_ He remembered tearing his fingers on the Ice as if he could dig through to the cold grave of water below. He remembered feeling Elenwë's last breath in his mind, and the cord that bound them _snapping_. At even the memory, a familiar ache settled in his chest, unhealed even these long centuries passed.  
  
He honestly considered his daughter's question, turning it over in his mind before giving her his answer. If his short time with Elenwë had been all that he was allowed throughout the Ages . . . if their bare century of marriage had been all that he was to ever know, even until the sundering of the world . . .  
  
Would it have been worth it?  
  
The answer was one he did not have to search for.  
  
He turned to Idril, and reached out to tenderly cup her face in his hands. His heart ached with the decision he knew she would make. Through all of these years, he had wanted to keep her hidden from the pains of the world, but the greatest of pains were born from the greatest of loves. He would not shield her from one to deny her the other. He would let her _live_ , and live in full. Through all that entailed.  
  
“If I only had that one lifetime with your mother, it would have been worth it. No matter how fleeting our joy, I never would have traded it in when the pain came. The sorrow did not compare to the great love I knew before.”  
  
There were tears building in her eyes, he saw. Both grief for the memory of her mother, and grief for the pain she would someday know. But there was joy beneath the sorrow, Turgon saw. Joy and wonder and an eager anticipation for the life they would live until that time – and live they would in full.  
  
“I give you my blessing, and wish you every happiness,” he brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek when a tear fell, and then there was no need for tears, for Idril was laughing - a bright and joyous sound that tugged at his heart. She threw her arms about his shoulders, and he embraced her, feeling his bond with her sing with her joy – with her wonder and amazement for the new love she could feel flourishing within her.  
  
“I thank-you, Atar,” Idril whispered into his chest. Her tears whetted the front of his tunic, but he knew them to be shaped in joy. “I love you.”  
  
“And I you, Itarillë. So very dearly.” He kissed the crown of her head before releasing her. She gave him one last smile, beautiful in its brilliance before she turned from him, no doubt to tell her beloved of her decision. Turgon watched her leave with a weight on his chest, an ache in his lungs - joy and pride and sorrow all at war within the depths of his spirit.  
  
After her steps faded away, he turned back to the open air, looking past the mountains to the ocean and the West even further beyond. The wind picked up around him as he did so, teasing the long ends of his night-dark hair and the ornate folds of his robes. He turned into the caress, feeling . . . _there_ . . .  
  
 _Our daughter has a strong heart._ _S_ _he has your spirit,_ _your capacity to love in dark places_ , he whispered to that empty place in his soul where once his wife been, imagining that somewhere, deep within Mandos' halls, she could hear him. That she could hear him and _know_.  
  
The wind picked up again, and somehow, he knew that she had heard _._ Elenwë understood, and as he had done so many times before, he picked up on her strength and made it his own. He felt his spirit fill with her light, full as it had not been in so very long. And then the touch of her warmth was gone, fading away as a memory.  
  
He inclined his head as the strange wind returned to the mountains, uttering a silent prayer to Námo in thanks for his gift, as extraordinary as it was. And then, he turned away. He had a wedding to aid in planning now, and there was much to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Endórë** : Middle-earth, in Quenya  
>  **Atar and Amil** : 'Father' and 'Mother' in Quenya.


	14. "we bit as the fire bites"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor & Maedhros || Prompt: _Seek, Sneak, Steal, Share, Sell_ , 100 word drabbles

**Seek**  
  
His voice had been crafted for music and song, but today he knew sounds of sorrow; of rage and despair - his vow rising in seven fold harmony with his brothers', all drunk on their father's rage.

" _Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords . . ._ " they swore to seek, to _hunt_ . . . To stop at nothing until the Silmarils were returned to their maker's hands.

_" . . . Shall defend from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin . . ."_

Maglor could feel the notes of their vow wrap about their spirits, invoking eternal darkness as payment for failure. Their Oath, a terrible discord of voices, and then -

_" . . . be Manwë and Varda our witnesses."_

\- silence.

**.**

**.**

**Sneak**

Though Maedhros was recovering, he bore the scars of his imprisonment even still. His skin was ashen, his body gaunt, and his hand . . .  
  
"Brother," Maglor revealed himself, stepping from the shadows, "Let me."  
  
"Káno," Maedhros greeted, anger trying to spark in his voice, but failing. "I suspected you were sneaking about."  
  
And Maglor wished for anger, for _fire,_ over the nothingness he heard instead. "Only to save you from your dreadful pride." His hands – two of them, _both_ – were steady as they plaited Maedhros' hair for the night, a task now impossible for the other.  
  
"Pride?" Maedhros snorted. "I feel it not."

**.**

**.**

**Steal**

The ringing of steel rose from the courtyard below. Determinedly, Maglor told himself that it was not his place to interfere, that Maedhros shared his weakness with Fingon and no other. But today there were shouts, not of war but of anger – hurt feelings and short tempers (crowns and blood), sparking and taking flame -

Fingon departed, and Maglor took his place. It was the first time he had held a weapon since . . .

. . . the thought was irrelevant.

"Morgoth stole your hand, not your soul," Maglor finally hissed, tossing Maedhros back his sword. "Now stand up and deny him that victory, if you dare."

**.**

**.**

**Share**

He had shared his family with Mandos before. He had mourned his father's death as a son, a child. Yet, his brothers belonged to his shield by blood and love, a bond greater than any vow of tongue. They were _his_ to preserve alive . . . and he had failed.

Doriath burned - a useless slaughter, for the Silmaril still evaded their grasp. His fingers were slick with blood – slipping against the strings of his harp.

 _Celegorm_ , he plucked the first note . . .

. . . _Caranthir_ , he strummed a second.

 _Curufin_ , and the chord was then three fold . . .

 _I shall see you again_ , Maglor mourned . . . _but not yet_.

**.**

**.**

**Sell**

The sons of Elwing slept, finally pushed into slumber by his song. Maglor himself kept guard, his lullaby waning only when Maedhros entered his tent, his gaze darkening over the children. Maglor tensed, holding the twins tighter - for their lives would come as forfeit only through the last breath of his own.

"You cannot buy their forgiveness," Maedhros snapped at his defiance. "Someday, they will hate you."

"I ask naught of forgiveness," Maglor returned fiercely, "for it is a coin greater than I can pay."

Forgiveness was impossible, but here the deaths would end . . . That was an oath he swore to freely and refused to break.


	15. "as stars are startled by the dawn"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eärendil/Elwing || Prompt: _Claim_ , Free-write

Eärendil's rooms smelled of salt and the sea.  
  
There was never a night when the windows were covered. Instead, the long white drapes billowed, dancing with the breeze that came in from the ocean. The sea had a heartbeat, Eärendil was fond of saying, and Elwing believed him. She could feel the tide as it breathed, as it echoed in her chest, matching the pulse of the jewel she wore beneath her nightgown beat for beat. In that moment, it's rhythm was too quick, crashing and retreating like the waves over the breaking rocks beyond. It was a cadence that only lulled when she slipped into the blue sheets beside him, already warm from the late hour of the night. At this point, his bed was more familiar than her own, and her own rooms no longer afforded her any comfort.  
  
Elwing had never liked sleeping alone. While her family was still alive, she rarely had to. Eärendil never had siblings; he never had his bed invaded by wide eyes struck open by nightmares, not like she. At first it had struck him as odd, this arrangement between them, but she was used to the unconventional in her life, and he accepted her presence with minimal fussing after the third time she had sought him out as such. For the fact remained that once she had fallen asleep with him after talking late into the night, and now, she felt ill at ease in her own bed. In her own skin. She could not sleep otherwise.  
  
She held her breath as she made herself comfortable, doing her best not to disturb him, but it was no use.  
  
“Your toes are cold,” Eärendil muttered. “And sandy.”  
  
Elwing carefully maneuvered her feet away from him. The movement disturbed the weight on the bed, and Eärendil sighed into his pillow, half awake.  
  
“I thought that you _liked_ the sand,” she returned on a whisper, giving her half challenge into the dark. Eärendil raised his head, allowing her a glimpse of a raised blonde brow and a clouded blue gaze.  
  
“Sand or no sand,” he said, his voice deep from sleep, “one of these nights, your lord and lady will find you missing, and Celeborn shall then use me for target practice with the bow upon the morn.” His words complained, but he was not as disgruntled as he pretended. His mouth was fighting not to make a smile. It never was a very long battle, she knew.  
  
Elwing rolled her shoulders. Her right elbow knocked against his own. “Galadriel knows where I go every night, and what the lady knows, the lord also does.”  
  
At that, Eärendil opened his eyes fully. He spoke a curse of Men into his pillow, learned from Tuor when Idril pretended not to hear. Elwing raised a brow, letting him taste fear for but a moment before adding, “But she has said nothing. I think . . . I think she understands. Besides, it is a moonless night tonight, and neither were home to know I stirred.”  
  
Each older than the sun and moon, Celeborn had been born in a time when there was only star-light to see by, and each night of the new moon, the couple would depart and walk the star-lit seashore in remembrance. She remembered accompanying her mother Nimloth on one such journey, listening as she was told tales of her people's beginning, of a time when the land was untouched by light and true darkness both. Now, there was the sun and moon, but also the Dark One in the northern-most black; and Elwing had neither her mother's songs nor her father's stories, just a holy jewel tucked in close to her chest.  
  
She held her breath, and could feel the Silmaril pulse in time with the pause of her lungs. The jewel shimmered, warm against her skin. Sometimes, the gem seemed to have a heartbeat of its own. It burned as if aware of the world around it, and Elwing would touch the jewel only through the silk of her scarves lest it burn her skin. The Silmaril murmured at times, a low and rich voice speaking in the High Tongue . . . ever seeking . . . ever yearning . . .  
  
Elwing closed her eyes, and wished that the voice would go away and let her be. She did not . . . she _could_ not . . .  
  
“What was it tonight?” Eärendil finally asked. She had shared her dreams with him during the earliest days of their friendship, when they had been children wide eyed in the sand as the Havens of Sirion were built around them; a balm on the wound of destroyed Gondolin and Doriath both. She had felt drawn to the boy with the sea in his eyes, he who had seen his home burn as she had seen hers burn. Even now she could feel the memories waiting behind her closed eyes turn to blotches of light and dark, harmless in shape. When he was near, they let her be enough for her to finally find peace in sleep.  
  
She breathed in deep, and tasted salt in her mouth.  
  
 _You make the ghost_ _s_ _quiet_ , she had told him. And it was true. The Silmaril quieted when he was near, letting her think, letting her remember in peace rather than in pain. She sighed and burrowed in deeper to his pillows.  
  
“The same,” she gave her answer. “The same as always.”  
  
Blood on the snow. The great trees of the forest underlit with flame. The Silmaril hidden away and yearning. The Silmaril hidden away and _pleading_ ; pleading even as Doriath burned, and her kin with it. She remembered Nimloth's silver brow turning as she pushed her daughter down the secret passes. She remembered Dior as he drew Aranrúth from its scabbard, for not only did Doriath pay in blood that day, with three of Fëanor's sons claimed by Mandos for their Oath.  
  
“The nightmares will fade over time,” Eärendil's voice was gentle in reply. Even though he knew loss the same as she, already he remembered with fondness over pain. She did not know how he managed it, and a part of her was jealous for his easy way with his grief. His easy acceptance for the events that had shaped his life.  
  
Her hands made fists in the sheets. She swallowed, and found that her throat was as a stone.  
  
“I remember too,” Eärendil sat up, propping his head up on his hand and leaning his weight on his elbow. He had a growth spurt that spring, and was now taller than her. His face was turning sharp in places, chiseled bones now peeking through a child's flesh. “I remember that Ecthelion would make me whistles, and Glorfindel would play very poorly on them – both to raise Ecthelion's ire as much it was to make me laugh. I remember Eglamoth with his brightly colored armor and his way with stories. I . . . I remember my grandfather. He was very strong, very wise, and his eyes were like stars - like the eyes of your Lady. For he too knew the light of Aman, and we could see the memory of the Trees' reflected in his gaze.”  
  
Too did Eärendil remember the demon of flame on the Cristhorn. He remembered Glorfindel blazing on brighter than even the Balrog himself, but he did not speak of that. He did not speak of Maeglin as he fell, of Tuor as he helped Idril find her feet on the snow covered passes in the steep mountain ways.  
  
“I remember the first time I saw the sea,” Eärendil said in a voice that dipped into awe, a voice that took on a note of reverence. “And while I mourned Gondolin, I knew a kindling within me for the waves that bordered my new home. I knew I had found a place where I could _belong_.  
  
“And then, when the Doriathrim joined us . . . I remember seeing you at your Lord's side, and wondering if you were quite real. You shone with such a light then . . . I thought you _were_ the light, like the sun when it glittered off of the waves . . . I remember staring, thinking that you had to be one of the Ainur from my mother's stories for the way that you glowed.  
  
“ . . . but you were just a child. There were no other children in Gondolin when I was born, and my mother had to explain to me that you were a little girl, a youth the same as me. I remembered being overjoyed at the possibility of knowing a new friend where I had lost so many.”  
  
Elwing closed her eyes at his words, feeling them burn behind her closed lids. A light he had seen that day . . . not her own, but the jewel she had worn outside of her cloak. Sometimes, she did not quite know where she ended and the Silmaril begun. She did not know which was flesh and which was the hard facets of the jewel's casing. She did not know which was the light of her fëa, and which was the radiance of the jewel . . . incandescent . . . haunting . . .  
  
Damning.  
  
“It was not I which gave off that light,” she found the words passing from her lips before she could think to draw them back. She squeezed her eyes shut before slowly opening them, one at a time. At the curious look on Eärendil's face, she sat up. She took a deep breath, running a hand through the strands of her hair that had escaped the long plait of her braid.  
  
“What do you mean?” Eärendil asked. His voice was patient, content as he was to wait for her to say what she needed to say. Sometimes, she found speech difficult, as if she moved at a different pace from those around her. She listened for a different voice; she answered with a different set of sounds.  
  
She exhaled. She felt her lungs tighten with the loss of her held breath.  
  
“It was this,” Elwing said, reaching beneath her braid to undo the clasp of the chain she wore the Silmaril on. She tugged, and pulled the jewel up from underneath her sleeping shift. Even hidden on her body, she kept the gem wrapped with linen to dampen the brilliance of its rays. As Eärendil watched, she unwrapped the jewel, holding it as she would a babe of flesh - something tender to protect, something _precious_ to behold . . .  
  
It was the first time she had shown another the jewel since Doriath. Even to show Eärendil, who was her dearest friend and truest companion, she felt something inside of her balk. She felt that something turn as a she-wolf, baring her fangs to any who would approach her den. The Silmaril was _hers_ , that something hissed; _hers_ to behold and _hers_ to protect, so much so that the eyes of any other were like a black mark upon a white canvas.  
  
But she told the voice to hush, and slowly pulled the folds of linen away. She felt wearied after the inner struggle, but oddly triumphant. For her will had dominated, and not the will of the jewel in her hands.  
  
She did not let herself think of what would happen on the day when she would prove to be weaker than the voice in her mind. She did not let herself think of that – not when Eärendil's eyes were widening, and the dark room was filling with _light . . ._ such a light . . . bright enough to block out even the stars from beyond. The light was more beautiful than anything the sun and moon could offer, a memory of the Trees' themselves, forever waxing and waning in differing amounts silver and gold, never allowing for true darkness to exist beneath the brilliance of their rays.  
  
“The Silmaril,” Eärendil breathed, looking down at the treasure in her hands. “The bride-price of Lúthien; Morgoth's delight and Doriath's bane. The child of Fëanor's soul and great price of his terrible Oath.”  
  
“It came to my father's care after Beren and Lúthien fell in death,” Elwing said. She felt something heavy gather in her throat as she told him so. “It was all he had left of her, and even though my mother pleaded and all in the court advised, Dior would not give it up when the Fëanorians came to claim what was their own. It was this you saw that day on the shore. This . . . and not I.”  
  
Eärendil reached out a hand as if to touch the gem, before thinking better of it. He slowly pulled his fingers back, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. The Silmaril's light painted his face in shades of incandescent light, painfully beautiful to behold. She looked, and felt an odd fluttering in her heart for how he appeared to her in that moment. She had the oddest urge to lean over and trace the line of his jaw with her fingers. She looked, and wanted to taste the pulse that flickered beneath the skin of his neck.  
  
She blinked at those new thoughts, uncomfortable for their shape in her mind. At her thinking so, the Silmaril seemed to shimmer in her hold. The voice within whispered, laughing . . .  
  
The Silmaril spoke as she imagined Fëanor must have sounded, all of those years ago. The Spirit of Fire, with his voice like a dancing flame, as warm and painfully beautiful as the belly of a star. It promised and cursed both, and yet Elwing could not look away when it shined with its holy light.  
  
“I do not know,” Eärendil said slowly, his voice thoughtful in reply to her words. “It is true, the Silmaril is a rather pretty trinket.”  
  
The gem pulsed in her hands, as if offended.  
  
“But here, I see . . .” gently, he moved her hand so that it covered the jewel, dimming its glow. With his other hand he tilted her chin up so that he could look in her eyes - her silver-grey eyes, Lúthien's gift to her blood, shining with the glory of the twilight. “I see true beauty, true light. It was _you_ I saw that day on the beach. The gem in your hands only enhanced what was already there.”  
  
He folded the linen wrappings so that he could pick the Silmaril up and put it on the bedside stand, forgotten for the night. She felt her heart leap in her chest for the jewel being so far from her – for it had not parted from her hold since the night Nimloth had pressed it into her hands and told her to _run_. She wanted to protest, to take it back, but Eärendil was already lying down and motioning for her to do the same.  
  
She did so stiffly, looking over his shoulder to the Silmaril beyond. She wanted . . .  
  
“Sleep, Elwing,” Eärendil bid. “It will still be there in the morning. For now, it shall have no further claim on you, or your dreams. Not tonight.”  
  
Elwing did as he said, her every moment stiff and unwilling. After a moment, she forced her heart to calm, admitting that she felt lighter with the jewel away from her chest. She felt buoyant, as if she were floating in calm waters. As if she had _wings_ . . .  
  
She burrowed in closer to Eärendil as her pulse slowed, as her breathing evened. _Beautiful_ , he had called her. _Her own light_ , he had seen . . . She thought of how the new lines of his face flickered underneath the Silmaril's light. Great the beauty of the gem had been, and yet, there was a beauty already there . . . Drowsy, in that place between sleep and awake, Elwing thought that she understood what Eärendil had tried to say. And, for that moment, she knew peace.  
  
That night she slept, and she slept without dreams.  
  



	16. "the work of two hands"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Fingon || Prompt: _Rebuild_ , Free-write

**Rebuild**  
  
The building was slow, but it was steady.

It was a small house they made between them - more of a cottage than anything else, really. Situated just to the north of Tirion, they were far enough away from the hustle and bustle of their people to not be apart of the din, but close enough so that they were not strangers, either. After being summoned by the Valar and taking a reborn Maedhros from Lórien, Fingon had stayed with the other in order to help him build his life again. There were few other demands on his time now, for there were too many heads made for crowns now as it was, and for once, he was free to do as he wished. In guilt and shame Maedhros shied away from most company as it was - seeking out only Nerdanel, or Elrond and his wife, whenever he wished to see anyone else. Once was, it was not so with his friend, and Fingon knew that he was where he could do the most good – both for Maedhros and for his people.  
  
 _Námo_ _has allowed this start for you_ , _does that not imply forgiveness of the highest sort?_ he would argue whenever Maedhros fell into his blacker moods. _You call yourself children of the stars_ , Death had said, _but you are born of the earth,_ _tied as you are to the length of_ _Arda and her days_ _. As Arda is marred, so is each of you, and mercy is given where mercy is deserved. Someday, at the breaking and reforging of the world, I shall need his_ _spirit_ _strong. I shall need him forged anew,_ _and that is a forging that cannot be done within my Halls._  
  
Fingon never had much skill with crafts, but he knew his cousin and dearest friend well. As such, this was a task he underwent with the greatest solemnity.

Oddly enough, the hardest thing in his second life for Maedhros to relearn was how to use both of his hands again. More often than not, his right hand hung limply at his side, all but ignored as he completed the majority of his tasks with his left hand. Sometimes, there was no avoiding using both hands – now, he could lace his own boots and braid his own hair – and then and only then would he remember to use them both. The first time Maedhros had peeled an orange without aid, he had proudly showed the skinned fruit to Fingon, and they had both laughed as they had not since they were both young men, and Arda was still in its spring.

At the memory, Fingon could still taste the tart juice of the citrus in his mouth. It was one of the sweetest things he had ever eaten.

His thoughts had taken his attention from his task, he realized as he blinked at the mirror. His braids were crooked from his inattention, and scowling, he raked his fingers through the locks so that he could begin again.  
  
“I wonder,” came a voice from the door to his rooms. Always did Maedhros speak as if asking a question now, unsure as he was of his worthiness to speak. It was a tone Fingon looked forward to someday destroying completely from the other's mouth, “What would they say about Fingon the Valiant if they knew that he did not have the patience for something as simple as braiding his hair every morning? There was always a reason that you had no skill for crafts, Káno – you could never sit still long enough to develop them as such.”  
  
“Valiant,” Fingon said wisely, huffing as he tossed his hair over his shoulder, “does not have to mean _patient,_ as well. They are two completely different things.”  
  
“And yet,” Maedhros returned, “valiance suggests a strength of character that would imply that such patience was a given, would you not agree?”  
  
“Obviously,” Fingon scowled, annoyed, “you have proof enough to the contrary before you.”  
  
At that, Maedhros snorted out a laugh, It was such an unexpected sound that Fingon turned towards it, feeling as sunlight breaking from a storm.  
  
“Here,” Maedhros approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder as if to ask for permission. Again, the touch was hesitant. Again, it asked where Fingon would have the other know that he was always welcome to take. “Allow me?”  
  
Fingon waved a hand. “Do what you would,” he said. “I was just going to wear it loose, and claim that my years in Endórë had the Moriquendi rubbing off on me.”  
  
“There is always that,” Maedhros said, but he started to work the golden thread into Fingon's hair anyway. Even with one hand working easily and the other slowly, Maedhros still braided the plaits faster than Fingon would have done alone. Six younger brothers and too many cousins to mention meant that he was accomplished with his task, and his body remembered the habit of old before it remembered its loss.

He tied the plaits off, and then playfully tugged on the end of the last braid to let him know he was done. Fingon felt his warmth depart as he stepped away, and he reached up to touch his hair, happy with the result.  
  
“Respectable once again,” Fingon commented as he stood. He looked at the other man, and let a smile touch his mouth with how uncomplicated his joy was in that moment. “Are you ready for another day of watching me wreck havoc on your plans, Russandol?”  
  
The building was slow, and even slower still for Fingon's complete lack of finesse with the tangible arts. And yet, Maedhros did not seem to mind. If anything, his constant fumbling amused him, and Fingon felt as if he were building something more – something stronger than stone walls and a roof against the rain.

“With an offer like that?” Maedhros inclined his head, a red brow wryly raised. “How could I even begin to refuse?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes yes - I took vague Fourth Age events and did what I wanted with them in a shameless excuse to write fluff when I wanted fluff. I have no apologies. ;)


	17. "had we but world enough, and time"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn/Galadriel; Elrond & Eärendil || Prompt: _Meet, Greet_ , Free-write

**Meet**  
  
If, years ago, someone would have told her that her entire world would come to revolve around one man, and the babe he held in his arms, she would have thought them to be quite mad. For she had set upon these lands with her desires clear in mind; _l_ _ands._ _f_ _reedom._ _independence_. In the script of her future, Galadriel had not inked in a place for the idea of a husband. The idea of a daughter.  
  
But love had found her when she had sought it not, and she had given in to its call. If her desires had since turned to a desire to serve, to be a pillar beneath shadow, other considerations had still not come into her mind. Even after centuries of marriage, she had not thought overly much about children of her own. After all, she had been there in those early days when Celeborn took over Nimloth's guardianship upon his brother's death. She had raised Nimloth's daughter Elwing from a coltish girl-child to a woman overflowing with white light after the destruction of Doriath. She had even taken Elrond as her pupil until the day she left for Eregion those scarce years before - watching his sharp mind blossom and grow underneath the direction of her tutelage. In those young souls she had felt the needs of the mother in her to be quite met. It had been Celeborn who wanted a child of their own, and he had wanted so for many years. For centuries he had kept his silence out of her wish to wait for Morgoth's defeat, and after, she finally agreed - honoring the long years of their union, he knew as well as she, rather than bowing to any true desire of her own.  
  
And now . . . now she wondered how she could have been so sure of her own heart, so sure of her own wants and needs. How could she not have known that she was empty, when she now was so full?  
  
She was still weary from the hardships of labor, for that too she had foolishly thought a hardship for _other_ woman, and not for her . . . that was, until the pangs started. Her eyes were bleary and her body ached, but her heart turned in her chest when she awakened to find Celeborn holding their daughter in the rocker by her bedside, quieting the babe so that she could sleep. There was something beautiful about them, Galadriel thought – both were so very silver and blue, like starlight on the water, and she knew a peace unlike any other at seeing them together. Her husband . . . her daughter. She looked upon them both, and thought only that there had never been such a beauty graced to her eyes before – her eyes, which had beheld the Silmarils in their spring, who had known the glory of the Two Trees themselves, who had seen the Sun and Moon rise for the first . . . All paled. None could compare.  
  
Somewhere in the Halls, she was sure that Fëanáro was laughing for the maternal shape of her thoughts. She knew that her father would have looked softly upon her revelation, something knowing in his eyes as she understood something he had long since tried to tell her. Finrod would have grinned that cheeky grin that always provoked her, and told her that he was glad to see her so content. Where was the fierce Artanis with her goals and her visions and her _hunger_? This he would ask and tease, and she . . .she would have no answer, knowing only that she was Galadriel the mother and Galadriel the wife, and she could imagine no greater roll for her than that. It was the only part she wished to play now, the only crown she wished to wear.  
  
Realizing that she was awake, Celeborn carefully moved to join her on the bed, sitting next to her atop the blankets so that she could see the tiny bundle in his arms. There was such a look in his eyes then, peace and contentment and joy – so much so that she was grateful for him recognizing the desires of his heart before she completely knew her own.  
  
But then . . . often had it been so between them.  
  
“Wise I once named you,” she said when she realized that her husband's smile was edged in triumph – he having heard her every thought as they poured into their bond. “Perhaps I was not completely wrong when saying so.”  
  
“I have my moments, at the very least,” Celeborn's eyes twinkled as he passed the baby to her, and Galadriel had no clever reply then - for she was holding her daughter for the first time since the weary embrace she had taken after her labor, and her mind had room for little else.  
  
When Celeborn drew away, she felt a stirring of irrational fear – she would harm her child, she thought. She would not hold her correctly, and then her daughter would cry. She was not made for this, _at all_ , Galadriel feared . . . and yet, the baby settled in to the crook of her arms as if they were made to fit together as such. Instinctively, Celebrían turned in her arms, seeking the heat of her body, the comfort of her embrace, and Galadriel held her closer still, full with the love she felt then.  
  
Nearly reverent, she touched the silver fuzz atop her daughter's head. She traced the pointed tip of a tiny ear, memorizing every shape, every soft place and gentle hollow on her daughter's body, wanting to remember her like this always. She hummed as she did so, finding old words gathering on the back of her tongue, drawn from a memory nearly as old as she . . . of Eärwen's cradle songs from the sea and Arafinwë's lullabies in the High-tongue. Each memory was filled with warmth and security both, even these long years passed.  
  
Galadriel hummed, feeling the tie on her soul that bound her to her daughter's fëa as she did so. Already the pathway was familiar, and she walked it. She felt where Celebrían unconsciously committed the songs to memory. Someday, when she looked for the words to hum to her own child, they would come to her as instinctively as breathing. Galadriel lingered at her bond with her daughter, filling it with as much love and warmth as she could manage until the baby in her arms was all but aglow with the light consuming her fëa.  
  
As she did so, she could feel Celeborn as he joined his consciousness to hers, adding a love and warmth of his own. For that moment, their small family was but one spirit, no ending and no beginning between them. Galadriel felt herself glow as the center of a star as their light mingled and burned on.  
  
When she blinked, her own person once again, she still felt impossibly attuned to her husband and daughter both, no longer existing for just herself then, but for them.  
  
Her daughter slept after that, her little body tired after their touching of souls. But her sleep was peaceful, full of golden dreams. Galadriel still rocked her, her lullaby fading to whispers on her lips.  
  
When she looked up, Celeborn was gazing at her as if realizing his love for her all over again. She felt peace fill her as he wrapped an arm about her shoulders, pulling her close to lean against his chest. She rested in the circle of his arms, needing the continued touch of bodies after such a mingling of souls.  
  
“That song,” he said into the silence that stretched between them. “Was it from Aman?”  
  
“Yes,” she answered on a soft voice. “I did not realize that I remembered it until the words came to me.” When she spoke, her voice was hushed with memory. “I was the youngest of all of my siblings, and younger still amongst many more cousins. I never held children close and reveled in their growing years. Rather, I was always the one struggling to catch up, it seemed.”  
  
And now, they were all gone. All of them but for Maglor, lost somewhere by the sea. . . . Celebrimbor, tinkering in the night beyond . . . Gil-galad on his throne, and Elrond faithful by his side. All of her once spiraling family had returned to Aman through death or the grace of the Valar – or had simply never left at all. They were gone, and she alone remained upon a darkened land for reasons of love and pride. It was not often that she second thought her decision to remain in Endórë, but in that moment, she did wish . . .  
  
She wished that her father could have held his granddaughter when Celebrían was still small enough to be held. She wished that her mother could have been there to advise her though the days of her pregnancy. She had grasped for Eärwen's hand during her labor as she once would have found her parent's bed after her nightmares, but Eärwen was a sea away, and Galadriel could only grit her teeth and bear through her pain. She wished that Finrod was there to make his silly faces, eager to move her daughter to giggles. She wished to hear Aegnor and Angrod beyond her bedside, each bickering over who would show Celebrían the bow, and who would hold her first upon her pony. Then Orodreth would have dryly cut in and pointed out that that honor would most likely belong to the girl's father. Celeborn would have been gracious, she imagined, and say that while he wished to show Celebrían the bow, they could teach her how to throw their weighed Noldorin daggers, and that would start the debate all over again . . .  
  
Galadriel wished for a hundred moments she would never have, even as she thought of the thousands of moments that were still to come in their life together. Someday . . . someday she would meet her family again, and they would love her daughter as if they had known her since her birth. Such was the way of kindred, no matter their sundering. This Galadriel knew, and this Galadriel forced herself to remember, the hazy hope of _someday_ a balm against the loss in her thoughts.  
  
She looked to the side, and wondered if Celeborn was thinking the same of his family. He had lost as much as she, for few from Doriath as it was still walked the woods of Middle-earth now. And yet . . .  
  
 _We will have to be family enough for each other, then_ , she felt Celeborn's thoughts as they caressed her mind. He laced his fingers through hers, even when she still held their daughter tight. _We shall hold on to this family, a_ _nd watch as it grows._  
  
She settled back against him, and felt as Celebrían burrowed in closer, following her as she did so. _Celeborn the Wise_ , she infused her thoughts with her fondness, their bond with her love. _Constantly do you prove it so to me._  
  
 _As I was named_ , he returned wryly, _so_ _may I continue to be._  
  
She raised a brow, but could not hold on to even a playful ire. Instead, she found a smile touching her mouth. She was silent in reply to his words, content as she was then to hold her family, and keep them as close as she could.  
  
  
  
.

.

  
 **Greet**  
  
The quays of Alqualondë were filled to the brimming with those awaiting the return of the grey ship from Middle-earth. Eärendil stood in a sea of eager faces, lost amongst the anxious and the joyous both as he kept a weary eye on the horizon, where a familiar stain of silver sails had just moments ago appeared against the twilit sky.  
  
For Galadriel's return, her family was waiting with baited breath. Arafinwë was fussing with the hem of his robes as if he were still a child unused to ceremonial garb, and not a king wearing a crown that had been his for thousands of years. Eärwen swatted playfully at her husband's hands, but she too was keen for the return of her daughter, hungry as her eyes were upon the horizon. At their side stood each of their four sons, long returned from Mandos to life anew, and their demeanors all waxed and waned from the anxious to the delighted.  
  
Further back waited Turgon and Elenwë his wife – both also long arisen from the Halls, standing by Idril and the immortal Tuor, who waited to greet the last remaining of their family from Endórë. They stood to observe, for the most part, knowing as they knew that they had centuries to come to know the family that had been sundered from them across the sea.  
  
To Arafinwë's left was Melian herself, the once Queen of Doriath having taken on a body bursting with celestial light for the occasion, she a calm presence in the sea of curious whispers and eager eyes. She stood, awaiting both the White Maia to whom she was dear, and the woman who had once been her most cherished student – a daughter of her heart as Lúthien had been of her flesh. And then, she awaited to greet the great-grandson of her mortal daughter . . . At her side, Elu Thingol himself stood, and he sought only one on the ship – looking for his daughter's eyes in a long awaited face.  
  
There would be many greetings, he knew, many indeed . . . and at that thought, Eärendil could not keep his hands from shaking. He tugged on the long ends of his braids, making sure that the intricate plaits were still in place. He made sure that the white of his robes was without wrinkles, that the circlet upon his head was not crooked. He felt as a green sailor approaching the sea for the first time, desperately praying for a journey free of storms. He had not felt this nauseous since he was first learning how to quell the sea-sickness within him, and now . . .  
  
“Breathe, dear heart,” came the amused voice from beside him. “You shall be no good to any if you were to fall faint from lack of air.”  
  
“You can be so calm - you had six years with them,” Eärendil could not help but complain, his words an anxious outlet for his restless energy. “I did not even have that . . . only stolen visits whenever we would put back to port to resupply. What . . . seven times, was that? Eight?”  
  
“Five,” Elwing supplied for him, and there was a shadow in her eyes when she said so. She did not look at the sea with eager anticipation, but rather with trepidation. For Eärendil had been far from home out of necessity, for the good of all peoples, where she, by choice had . . .  
  
He let the thought rest in his mind, turning it aside with the ease of too many sleepless nights alone amongst the stars. There would be many years to seek and earn forgiveness, Eärendil thought. They had paid a steep price for their decisions - and looked to pay even more still if their son understandably decided that he wished to have little to do with them. And yet, he could not help but hope . . .  
  
Eärendil stilled his thoughts, and forced himself to breathe.  
  
When he was starting to think the better of even coming – for surely this was a meeting best done in private, away from the eyes of others – Círdan's grey ship was already being pulled into dock by the Telerin mariners.  
  
When he saw figures upon the boat, Eärendil had to force himself to stay back in the crowd. After so many years sailing above Ennor at night, he knew his son's face as well as his own. Elwing, however, did not have his stolen glimpses, and her look was greedy – as greedy as it once would have been upon the facets of her Silmaril. Her eyes followed Elrond as he made his way down the gangplank and then on to the dock at Galadriel's side. He moved slowly, Eärendil thought, worry rising in his throat at the observation. Much too slowly, and even across a distance he could feel the lines of blue that bisected his fëa – shattered lines from the Ring he had worn for so long, and at great price.  
  
Yet, their view of their son was soon distorted by a streak of silver and white – Celebrían, who one moment had been waiting patient and poised by her grandparents' side, and then was all but throwing herself into her husband's arms, laughing like a child as Elrond picked her up and spun her about, grinning like a youth as he did so.  
  
Elwing's hand turned crushing in his own. He looked, and saw tears burn at her eyes, even though she fought to keep them from their fall.  
  
Eärendil watched as Olórin came with the two Hobbits next, one young and one old, but both with burdened eyes that lightened with their first steps upon the undying soil. They both smiled at the sight of the normally composed and grave Elf-lord acting as a love struck youth, and their smiles only grew when they saw how Galadriel was tugged this way and that as her family embraced her with tears and held her close with words of missing and regret for the manner of their parting. Always, the Golden Lady had been a pillar, and now, to see the mighty woman all but weeping as she turned to a child before those even more ancient than she was moving.  
  
After the near tangible joy of the reunion lost its desperate edge, the crowd parted and bowed for the arrival of Manwë and Varda themselves as they took on bodies of flesh in order to welcome Olórin back into their fold. The Hobbits were all wide eyes and reverent awe for the majesty of the Valar, for the revealed glory of Gandalf their friend - who was transformed into a spirit of white light before their eyes. The wrinkled and weathered mask of _Gandalf_ fell away to reveal a creature of holy flame and unsurpassed beauty – _Olórin the Maia_ he was again, bowing before his lord and lady and receiving the warm thanks that were his due and humble delight.  
  
All of this, Eärendil watched with held breath and burning eyes, waiting as he was for, when . . .  
  
He did not know if his son was looking for him in the crowd, but he liked to think so as Elrond and Celebrían turned towards where he stood with Elwing. The crowd dutifully parted, as if understanding as the couple approached them, walking arm and arm as if even a moment apart was a moment too much. Eärendil watched them together, and felt his heart turn tight for how much he had missed. As they approached, Celebrían caught his eye for a moment, and her smile turned soft – encouraging, Eärendil knew from the centuries he had of knowing his son's bride.  
  
Elrond looked unsure as he came to a stop an arm's reach away, as if internally debating whether or not he should bow or incline his head or offer his hand. How did one greet the son he had scarcely known, Eärendil wondered? Over six thousand years . . . how did one cross the bridge of so much lost time?  
  
“Ad – no, _Eärendil_ . . .” Elrond greeted, the words stiff and halting from his mouth. “I . . . it is a pleasure to meet you.”  
  
Elrond finally decided on offering his hand, and Eärendil looked down, feeling a stabbing at his chest for the formality of the gesture before shaking the feeling away. Celebrían looked between the both of them, sadness touching her gaze before her brow steeled in determination. She stepped back, catching Eärendil's eye as she did so . . . and he . . . he did not think.  
  
He embraced his son for the first time since holding him as a small child. He felt as Elrond went ramrod straight in his arms, his every bone stiff and unyielding. At first Eärendil feared he had made a terrible mistake. He wanted to draw away, to step back in shame, but he was unsure of precisely how to do so.  
  
And then, he did not have to – for his son's fisted hands relaxed, rising instead to awkwardly hug him back. He felt as the body in his hold lost its cast of stone. Hesitantly, Elrond returned his embrace, and Eärendil closed his eyes, feeling each and every missing year as they settled in bone deep . . . Then he exhaled, forcing himself to think only of the years that laid ahead of them . . . the long years he would have to now make this right.  
  
“Adar,” he heard Elrond whisper, and at the one word, something inside of him rose as if flying.  
  
“My son,” he returned on a voice choked with feeling, and there they began.


	18. "when you fall, you fall in flames"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron, Melkor, Thuringwethil || Prompts: _Stir, Taint, Form, Rise, Suit_ ; 250 word drabbles

**Stir**  
  
Melkor flickered as a wraith through Aulë's halls, casting his presence like a net, calling those of like soul forward as he flew through the belly of the blacksmith's forge. To those unworthy who perceived the weight of his might, they passed his precense off as nothing more than a terrible thought in the unwaking hours, a fell chill in the dead of night.  
  
The work of Aulë was done for the day. The great forges had all but emptied, with only two of his brother's Maiar remaining to work through the night. Curunír first he recognized, a willowy and silvery white spirit whom Aulë spoke of well enough, but did not draw his interest long enough to linger.  
  
Yet, at the second Melkor paused, his curiosity drawn. Strong hammer-falls danced against a white hot fold of metal upon the anvil, the rhythm seemingly resounding in Melkor's chest without a body to hold such a pulse. He gazed on, drawn by the Maia working before the forge. Where Curunír was white and silver, snow after a storm, this one was a flame, with braided hair the color of molten copper and catl's eyes, colored gold and wreathed by fire – a stare to rival the Flame Imperishable he had long sought in the time before time. _Mairon_ , Aulë had named this one – _the admirable_ , first in lore of the Earth-smith's house, and jewel of the blacksmith Vala's collection of spirit followers . . .  
  
Entranced, Melkor drew nearer, joining the shadows to listen, and he heard . . .  
  
  
.

.

  
**Taint**  
  
“The host of the Valar fight a loosing battle with Melkor. Or, at least, a battle that will be long and filled with discord,” the first was saying. “Many are those of fire who have joined his cause. Some from Oromë's fold too have joined, and even more still of our own ranks . . .” His voice was shaped in consideration, testing the waters. Melkor could taste his curiosity, like salt upon the skin.  
  
“You speak treason, Curunír,” came Mairon's voice in return, scolding. “Everything he touches turns to ash. In the way of power he is the greatest of our Father's children. And yet, he lacks the order necessary for true control; complete conquest. It would be a folly for you to consider such a defection.”  
  
“I have no wish to join the Fallen,” Curunír sniffed. “I merely know how to espy a formidable foe, Mairon.”  
  
The golden one snorted, unconvinced. Melkor felt the hands of his will shape like talons then, hearing the undertone in the Maia's voice. _He_ , who had sung the original counter-song, could hear that same discord in the blacksmith's voice now. Mairon may have spoken one way, but his thoughts were not quite as barbed as his words. His spirit betrayed him, ever searching and building, thinking in numbers and fixed figures and sums.  
  
Ravenous, Melkor's spirit spread like a shadow - _consuming_.  
  
“Yes . . . a formidable foe indeed,” Mairon whispered dubiously in return before turning back to his work, unaware of the shadow that had joined his own, ever there to stay.  
  
  
.

.

  
**Form**  
  
One of the original spirits of fire, a Maia of Melkor from before the Music of Eä, Thuringwethil was one of the few of her brethren free from a Balrog's form. And yet, even being akin to her Master in body and mind, she had first thought nothing of the golden Maia Melkor had dragged in his wake when returning from the dwelling place of the Valar, where he had taken to haunting often as of late.  
  
 _Mairon_ , she recognized the spirit even before he took a body once more. She recalled his song from the Music, how his clear voice had supported that of his master Aulë's, trying to chain the melody of Melkor's discord with order and strength; the iron wrought bonds of chains and the smoldering heat of the forge - a mere _candle_ when compared to the flame of Melkor's might.  
  
She had scoffed at her Master's newest pet until the first time Melkor had bidden him to sing - to _create_ as Melkor himself could no longer wholly create. The Maia had paused - considering, _planning_ , where Melkor himself would have pushed blindly ahead.  
  
She had waited patiently, ready to judge and find the other wanting. And yet, from that first song, dragon scales and the great wings of a wyrm started to take shape from golden light. Power _blazed_ from Mairon's spirit, reflected in the hungry cast of her Master's eyes, and Thuringwethil started to understand, just barely, why Melkor had coveted this one enough to steal him so boldly from underneath Aulë's nose.  
  
.

.

  
**Rise**  
  
Thuringwethil's freedom of form and ease of movement often took her away from Utumno as a spy and messenger both, sent forth by Melkor's voice in her mind and greeted by silence when she returned to her tower, her duty done.  
  
But Mairon was there that eve, concealed by the shadows but for his eyes of flame, unable to be veiled by the night. She let her eyes fall over him (ignoring the urge to touch, to come closer – flames drawn to flames as they were, tongues of fire burning all the brighter for the consuming of each other), instead turning to the long fall of fabric he held in his hands - shimmering indigo and violet at turns in the twilight, black like the spaces between stars.  
  
“Heat rises,” he said in explanation as she donned the cloak. If she did not know any better, she would have thought his fair face to be blushing. “You shall fly whilst wearing this.”  
  
Her lips drew back from her teeth, her smile revealing the pointed tip of fangs. The fabric fell from her shoulders like a shadow, blocking the starlight beyond and casting wings from her arms, as if she were a bat, a fell creature of the night sky.  
  
“This is an unparalleled treasure, Annatar,” she praised sincerely.  
  
“Annatar?” he raised a brow, his eyes questioning.  
  
Her smile only grew as she backed to the edge of her tower. “Annatar . . . _lord of gifts_ ,” she translated -  
  
\- and fell into the night sky, only to fly.

  
.  
  
.  
  
  
 **Suit**  
  
Where originally the Song of Eru had been order, neatly lined notes and carefully constructed chords, the land the Song birthed was now chaos, war and waste and division. Through fire, Mairon had seen a way to restore order to Arda marred – as he would melt down a metal not fit for forging, purifying it until it was worthy of craft.  
  
When he first sold his soul to meet this final end, he did not foresee the depths this goal would sink him to . . . and yet, even now, he was unsure of what he would change if ever he had a chance to choose again.  
  
“They call you Sauron now,” Melkor remarked pleasantly, standing from his iron throne in order to hover before his prostrate servant. He crooked a single finger beneath Mairon's chin, forcing the Maia to meet his master's gaze. “Sauron, the _abhorred_ . . . Gorthaur, the _cruel_. Should I too address you so?”  
  
He was unable to bow his head in the Vala's hold, Melkor's eyes holding him as firmly as his ungentle grip. “Whatever name suits my lord's will the best,” he answered dutifully, “so may I be called.”  
  
Melkor's laughter was rich and full; all in his court shuddered to hear it.  
  
“My admirable one, how you do please me,” Melkor praised, releasing him.  
  
Mairon – _Sauron_ – let out a breath, and swore that this too was done for unity, for _order_ . . . And not for the rich flare of pride he felt, deep within him; an ember coaxed to flame by Melkor and Melkor alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Curunír** : Saruman  
>  **Mairon** : Sauron
> 
> My characterization of Melkor and Sauron was based on this fascinating little tidbit from 'Morgoth's Ring': _“While Morgoth still stood, Sauron did not seek his own supremacy, but worked and schemed for another, desiring the triumph of Melkor, whom in the beginning he had adored. He thus was often able to achieve things, first conceived by Melkor, which his master did not or could not complete in the furious haste of his malice.”_ Their whole ultimate duo of evil has fascinated me ever since.


	19. "for ashes, from ashes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finwë/Indis, Findis, Nerdanel/Fëanor || Prompts: _Anew, Birth, First, Begin_ , Free-write

**Anew**  
  
Often, King Ingwë of the Vanyar would send his sister to be his eyes and ears in Tirion, granting the grace of the fair ones to the court of the Noldor, each offering wisdom and taking council in return as their peoples learned and grew together. Once, before they had walked the shores of hallowed Aman, Indis had been close in friendship with both the King of the Noldor and his Queen. Once, the three of them were only apart when they had to be, and now . . .  
  
Now, it was all so very different, Indis thought. For the white of Míriel's flame had fled bright Tirion, and even the undying fields of golden Valinor seemed to be that much dimmer in her wake. Dimmer still was Finwë himself; wilted as a strong tree from a storm.  
  
Upon seeing him as such, Indis felt her spirit ache for how much he had changed since she saw him last. Once his broad shoulders and easy strength had held his people together through the Great Journey. Now he looked like a worn and weary creature to her eyes. He looked faint around the edges. Wraith like, almost - not all as a firstborn of a race in the spring of their existence.  
  
It was not to have been like this in Aman, she thought. Shouldn't they have left all such black feeling behind in Endórë? Were these lands not hallowed lands? Lands of peace and plenty?  
  
If Aman had not brought her the peace she had hoped it would, she already knew the shape of her spirit's discontent. Since she could first remember, something had always been missing from her heart, and yet, she had thought that her years had taught her how to rise above the wishes and desires of her spirit. All too often, she had heard the story as it was told . . . of first looks and glances that _knew_. Her kind, for all of their uncountable years and _forever_ found their bonds of souls within moments more often than not, and she . . . she knew from the first upon meeting Finwë Noldóran that she would love none other for as long as she would live.  
  
And yet, it was an empty attachment her fëa made, for he was bound to the woman who was a silver flame at his side. Just as she had awakened at Cuiviénen and knew that Ingwë was her brother, Finwë had awakened and known that Míriel had been made for him as his mate, and he had never questioned her place in his heart. After a time, Indis had grown to care for Míriel as dearly as she cared for Finwë, filling in the loss of a mate with the gain of a sister all but blood. She had thought to have triumphed over the needs of her spirit, finding friendship and the great affection of comrades. She had thought it possible to sustain herself solely on this.  
  
But now . . . now Míriel was gone, and a piece of Finwë was gone with her. Míriel was gone, and Indis . . . Indis was much the same, longing for things she could not have.  
  
The hour was late. In the sky above, only Telperion graced the land with her silver light. While there was never true darkness in Aman, there were hours of slumber when the land took its rest. All slept but for the King within his gilded halls, wandering the gardens as if his answers to his sleepless nights could be found within slumbering bloom and bubbling fountain.  
  
When Indis first saw him on the garden path, she had thought to turn away. And yet, there was something in her heart that instead drew her closer to him. She did not want to be alone that night, and neither did she want to leave him to his solitude, and so, the solution was simple.  
  
When he gestured, she sat down next to him on the lip of one of the more ornate fountains. The singing waters were a cold shade of silver in the Treelight, leaping and playing in gay refrain. The night hummed with its own music as it stretched.  
  
“You are burdened, my friend,” Indis said to Finwë's silence. In her words, there was an invitation for him to unburden his soul if he so wished. “Why are you still awake this eve?”  
  
A long moment passed, so long that she did not think he would answer her. And then . . . “It is too quiet in the night,” he said on a voice no more than a whisper. “It is a quiet that does not burden me in the light of day, when I have much to distract me. At yet . . . at night my rooms are too empty, and when I do find sleep, Fëanáro wakes me more often than not. He cannot _feel_ me when I take my rest, and with a child's fear, he is terrified to think that I too will fade away in the night . . . He should not have to fear so. Not here . . . not in Aman as it was promised to us, and as a result I do not sleep most nights.”  
  
They were sitting very close, but still they did not touch. There was a careful space between each of their bodies, as if to come any closer would be to break some forbidden rule, to cross a line that only existed in each of their minds. Once was, Finwë had been easy with his affections. Hand in hand they would walk, arm in arm, even; with Míriel on one side and she on the other. A hand would touch her cheek fondly, and Míriel's laughter would greet her like a caress. Now, Finwë was careful not to touch her, and Míriel would never laugh again, and Indis . . .  
  
When she reached out to carefully take his hand in her own, he seemed as startled as she by the boldness of her actions. He looked down, as if captivated by the way her small fingers fit into his much larger hold. The pad of his thumb was callused from the long years of their flight from Endórë, but she knew no sweeter caress than when he traced the fine bones on the back of her hand, finding a pattern previously lost to her. Her heart leapt in her throat, in fear as much as fulfillment . . . and yet, the touch did not startle the night. It did not break the peace of the silver light bearing down on them.  
  
For a moment, she did not breathe.  
  
“And you?” Finwë asked. He stared down at her hand, swallowed within his own. “What keeps you awake this eve?”  
  
Indis found her throat thick when she swallowed. At first, she thought to keep her truths to herself, but found that she could not . . . not with Finwë and his eyes like the starlight on the water and his hand warm and _tangible_ upon her own.  
  
“It is quiet in the night,” she answered his words back to him. “My rooms are too empty, and when I do find sleep . . . dreams awaken me more often than not. They are cruel things, teasing me with that which I cannot have.”  
  
For their people loved once and only once. Finwë's soul was still bound to his wife, even in death, even beyond the circles of the world . . . But Míriel had _chosen_ death. She had _chosen_ to abandon her husband . . . her fëa sucked dry by the inferno of her son, so much so that her hröa had no choice but to fade as well. And Indis . . .  
  
. . . Indis longed and Indis loved. Were they three some great flaw of their kind? she wondered. She, the grieving husband, and the wife who abandoned them all? Were they some mistake of creation to feel so . . . to yearn so? For it did not _feel_ wrong; the contentment in her heart, the completion in her soul when he was near . . . it did not feel unnatural. It did not feel like sacrilege, like a dark and evil thing.  
  
Indis reflected, but found that she had no answers . . . not that night. Instead she held Finwë's hand in her own and leaned her head to rest against his shoulder, both taking in the comfort of the other and offering comfort in return. Together, they waited for Laurelin to greet the world with her light, and rose once more with the dawn.

**.**

**.**

**Birth**  
  
At first, Findis had looked on the idea of another sibling with no small amount of trepidation.  
  
After all, she already had one brother, and one was _quite_ enough to her mind. _Half-_ _sibling_ , Fëanáro would say with his lip curled up in a way that she had since learned was distaste. _Distaste_ , like the way one would crinkle one's nose for mud upon their shoe. It did not trouble Findis much, not any more, at least. She could crinkle her nose just as well as he could, and she would not let her father's son look down on her without turning her chin up haughtily in reply.  
  
 _Noldorin_ _stubbornness_ , her mother had called it. _Vanyarin sensibilities_ , her father had returned, and there was not sadness upon his brow so much as a shadow when he spoke.  
  
Always, Findis would try to make each of her embraces that much tighter whenever Fëanáro turned away from their small family. As best she could, she tried to assure her parents that she was okay, that his coolness did not sting. And it was true . . . a part of her could feel the angry flame of her brother's spirit, and knew sorrow for it. She did not understand the looks her family received from others when they thought her father was not looking. She did not understood the whispers and the hushed rumblings of _Míriel_ that the Noldor would offer like a reverent hymn . . . She did not understand, and she did not wish to - for this was her family, _hers_ , and even if they were different, their home was still filled with laughter and love and light. It was still a _home_. Her home.  
  
. . . what could be unnatural about that?  
  
Findis _understood_ in the simple way of children, and while she was strong enough to stand beneath the weight of Fëanáro's disregard, she did not . . . she did not think that she would be strong enough to do so with two brothers.  
  
As a result, she watched her mother's stomach grow round with an ever growing unease. She dutifully came when her mother called her close to feel the baby kick within her stomach. She even pressed her ear to her mother's belly once when she was sleeping, following the ever growing tug on her spirit that she would later describe as the first stirrings of hope.  
  
 _Her brother_ , Findis tried to reason the words out in her mind. Her brother _;_ not _half_ , but _whole_ . . . Her brother, born not of a shadow of a woman and the warm heat of her father, but of _her_ parents. Her parents _both_.  
  
And yet, even for all of her careful reasoning, Findis could not possibly understand what a _brother_ truly meant until the day after his birth.  
  
The day before, the house had been filled with the sound of her mother's screams. The pain of birth was natural, Findis' nanny had assured her - the pain was life as it was born, and not something to be feared. While Findis had listened with a solemn understanding and a fervent desire to be brave, she was still scared for the tension in the air, for the fear in her father's eyes. For everyone knew how the trauma of birth had killed his first wife; Fëanáro's fire sucking up every last bit of Míriel's soul and leaving it dry, or so the whispers said.  
  
Findis knew the naked flame in her half-brother's eyes, and she believed the whispers of the maids. She had even told Fëanáro once, after he had been especially cruel. She had not understood how _she_ had been the one sent to bed and scolded when Fëanáro had stormed out from the palace in a rage. Even as her mother dealt with her crossly, she had felt satisfaction bloom deep within her for being able to hurt him as he hurt her – for she had seen the way he had flinched, as if recoiling from a blow, when she threw the words at him. No matter how quickly he had tried to hide it, she had seen his pain, and she _knew_. Afterward, she had not understood why _she_ was the one punished for _the truth_. After all, she was ready to be Fëanáro's sister as Indis was ready to be his friend – if not his mother. She did not understand why he would not accept his family as it was offered to him.  
  
And now she was terrified that her new brother would steal her mother's soul as well. Would Indis fade and leave her as Míriel had left her son? Would her brother's fire be as terrible as Fëanáro's as a result?  
  
Findis had asked her nanny the questions weighing on her mind, but the woman had no useful answer – just wide eyes that turned sad as she whispered about the Valar and their ways. _Useless_ , Findis had thought before deciding to take matters into her own hands. Very carefully she knelt by her window, facing the direction of the mountain of the Valar. She shaped her prayers in her mind, _pleading_ for Námo to hear her, pleading for Death to let both her mother and her brother be . . .  
  
. . . and then the screams had turned so very _loud_. Fervently, she had asked the Lord of Souls to take _her_ fëa if need be, but not her family, anything but them . . . She had fallen asleep with her prayers on her lips, exhausted and heartsick, and only years later would she understand that dreamless sleep as Námo's kindness in answer to her pleas.  
  
The next morning, Findis was called to her parent's rooms. While she carefully looked at her mother for any sign of fading – and thankfully finding none - Indis asked her to sit, and then showed to her a bundle of white blankets and pruned red flesh. Dutifully, Findis had copied her mother's hold when her brother was given to her, carefully supporting his head and cradling his little body with her arms. She swallowing back the fear that said that she was holding him _all wrong_. She would _hurt him_ , and the fear she felt for that thought was so sudden and strong that it nearly took her breath away.  
  
“Do not fear, little one. Infants are stronger than they look, and you will not hurt him,” Indis whispered, her voice lullaby-soft, and Findis had believed her.  
  
And so, Findis summoned her bravery, and held her little brother all by herself. She cradled his small body, surprised that something so tiny could already give off such a warmth. He was all purple skin and folds of wrinkled red flesh – not particularly pretty, Findis thought, not at all like her dolls. But there was _something_ about his grey eyes when they flickered . . . _something_ about the way his small hand batted at the air as if searching.  
  
Findis offered her finger to his questing grip, and there was such a strength in his tiny hand when the baby squeezed. His eyes found hers, and she thought that he had to have known who she was. She felt the first stirring of that bond between souls, flaring into existence with the touch of skin on skin, and all of a sudden, she could not understand how she ever had cause to fear. How could she have feared such a joy? Such a _rightness_ settling into her spirit?  
  
“What is his name?” Findis asked, her voice soft with her awe.  
  
“Nolofinwë,” Indis answered gently. _Great wisdom_ , Findis translated, and she nodded, accepting her mother's insight for what it was.  
  
“Nolofinwë,” she whispered. “My name is Findis . . . and I am your sister.”  
  
 _Sister_. Not _half,_ but _whole_. Already her heart ached with the idea. She held her brother for as long as she could that first time, refusing to give him up until her arms turned weary from the strain and the baby started to turn restless in his need for food.  
  
She did not leave her parent's rooms, even after giving her brother up. Instead she crawled into her father's lap as her mother took Nolofinwë to nurse, and Findis curled into the warmth her father gave off like a furnace as Finwë held her close and whispered how much he loved both she and her brother against the crown of her head.  
  
 _Her family_ , she thought drowsily, content in that moment as she was. _Her family_ . . .and no matter what anyone else would say, that they would always be.  
  
  
  
 **.**

**.**

**First**  
  
They ducked into the stables when the storm hit.  
  
There were never true storms in Aman, not like those that tore apart the land in her father's stories of Endórë across the sea. Overhead, the sky took on a cast of silver-grey, dimming the last rays of Laurelin's light as raindrops fell fat and steady on the world below. The land was full with life and growth in that moment, filling Nerdanel with the song of the heavens down to her very bones.  
  
At her side, Fëanáro did not appreciate the rain as she did. Moodily, he pushed his wet hair back from his eyes as he looked darkly on the sky above. The black of his ruined braids was the glossy shade of a raven's wing when wet, the molten silver of his eyes nearly black with his annoyance. She saw the hooked line of his mouth – normally a mark of victory when it was from her doing – and felt her own mouth turn upwards in reply. Her skin prickled as with static, like the sky before storm-light struck.  
  
“Do you not care for the rain?” she asked, a note of teasing sinking into her words – soothing the flame of his temper as one would put a shade about a lamp.  
  
He raised a brow, scowling in a way that reminded her of meeting him for the first on the road. He had been covered in mud, the wet earth obscuring the emblem of his house on his cloak and dimming the circlet at his brow. His horse had been limping from a tossed shoe, and as moody as his rider as they saw her coming on the lane. Imperiously, he had imposed upon her for her aid, commanding her arrogantly and blithely assuming her ready compliance with his orders. She had left him with a few choice words of her own, and galloped away in a righteous pique, kicking more mud on him as she rode off. When he showed at her father's forge as Mahtan's newest apprentice later that day, revealed as Finwë's son in all of his glory . . . well, she had not apologized, but time had done much to turn the words between them from scathing to teasing, at the very least. If anything, her hot words had him circling back time and time again, leaving her dizzy with their dance.  
  
“Not particularly,” Fëanáro grumbled in reply to her teasing. He reminded her of a barn cat for the way he was trying to wring out the end of his braids; his claws out and all but hissing.  
  
She let her own hair lie where it was, not caring that long strands escaped her braids to hang wetly in her face. The rain was cool against her skin; its taste was sweet against her tongue. “The great Curufinwë Fëanáro, threatened by a bit of sky-water?” she teased, slanting her voice mockingly across his full name. “Wait until Tirion hears of this.”  
  
“I am not _threatened_ by the rain,” Fëanáro protested. “Just . . . vexed. There is no order in the storm.”  
  
 _Nothing for him to control_ , she heard the unspoken in the words. His face crinkled with the thought, reminding her of her baby sister when she refused to eat her mashed peas. The comparison made her smile, but she did not tell him so. She did not, for he was looking at her oddly then . . . his eyes lighting in a way that made the static on her skin seemingly pool in her stomach.  
  
She bit her lip, suddenly wary in his presence as he leaned forward to brush the wet strands of her hair from her face. His fingers were callused against her skin, but the play of softness and roughness only turned at something deep inside of her. Gently, he tucked the copper curls behind the point of her ear, brushing the tip with his thumb as he did so. His eyes flickered down, as if mapping out lines between her freckles before his gaze settled on her mouth. And then -  
  
It was her first kiss, Nerdanel thought a bit breathlessly. She kept her eyes open so that she would not miss a moment of it; her mouth tingling pleasantly as she pressed her lips more firmly against his. Her first kiss . . . but she would not tell him so. She felt the static in her stomach turn to lightning then, suddenly full as she was, as full as the earth with the rain beyond.  
  
Briefly, she entertained the idea of slapping him . . . this arrogant princeling of a man, who thought he could have anything and everything he wanted, playing with the homely smith's daughter as a cat would play with a ball of string . . . and yet . . . Something inside of her twisted, hoping, that maybe . . .  
  
She pulled back, feeling something within her blooming like a new flower upon a vine, seeing the bright flame of his eyes brighter than she had seen it yet. He looked oddly uncertain then, oddly vulnerable, and it was the _fear_ she saw there that touched her more than anything else. His skin was warm to the touch, too warm . . . and then she made her first kiss her second, and stayed so with him until the rain ebbed beyond.  
  
  
.

.

  
 **Begin**  
  
“Yes, just like that – only, be sure that you support his head.”  
  
“Thank-you,” Nerdanel said as her goodsister arranged baby boy more securely in her arms. “I was very young when my sisters were this small, and I must confess that I have forgotten much.”  
  
“It is like learning to speak,” Findis said, her mouth quirking up as she said so. “It is impossible for your mouth to forget words once they are learned, and a baby too is as such. See, you are already a natural.”  
  
Nerdanel smiled down at the baby, cradling his little body close with the ease of instinct. The child was all softness and warmth in her embrace, as if she held a swaddled ember within the sea of embroidered blue rather than a babe of flesh and bone.  
  
Findis released her brother to her hold, but looked ill at ease to step away completely. While the King and Queen of the Noldor were busy accepting the blessing and well wishes of the court at the feast that welcomed their youngest son to the world, Findis had taken her brother's care upon herself rather than leaving him to the keeping of a nanny. She clasped her hands together as Nerdanel held him, as if to give her fingers something to occupy themselves with.  
  
At first, Nerdanel had approached the child out of obligation, and she was but one in a long line of well wishers. The place at her side was empty, even though she had not come alone. Fëanáro had disappeared shortly upon arriving, leaving the festivities behind in order to sequester himself in one of the empty rooms in the palace - no doubt to brood in silence until it was socially acceptable for them to take their leave. She would not have the court speak of her husband's slight, and so she made sure that her bland smile was securely in place as irritation flooded through her veins. Irritation and frustration both.  
  
She . . . she had done all that she could to help calm the raging within her husband's soul, and she would be able to do no more until they were alone and away from the blinding light of Tirion once more. Until then, she would not be rude to their hosts for the evening, and she would certainly not turn away the chance to hold her newest kinsman. She did not carry Fëanáro's disdain for Finwë's second family – and, in truth, Fëanáro did not either. He feared his sibling's place in their father's heart, he feared them for the replacements he thought them to be . . . but she had seen the memories themselves in his mind. He had smiled the first time he had held Findis in his arms, before thinking about how much like Indis she looked, and then his walls were in place once more. He watched Nolofinwë as he grew from afar, quietly marveling over the quick rise of his mind and the clever cast of his words – all to himself, and never aloud, of course. When Lalwendë was born, he had spend an entire week in the forge, crafting an intricate mobile of warm copper and softly glowing gems that would hang above her crib – a crib he would never visit.  
  
And now, with this last child . . . _Arafinwë_ he was named, and where Nolofinwë looked alike to Finwë and Fëanáro both to the point that it was uncanny, this boy was already all happiness and wide grey-blue eyes, the gold of his mother's Vanyarin hair a fuzzy halo about his head.  
  
“Already he is such a smiling boy,” Nerdanel said, her heart completely stolen.  
  
“He is,” Findis agreed warmly. “Nolofinwë was so solemn – he looked as if he was taking everything in and learning, even in his earliest days. Arafinwë sees joy in this world.”  
  
“He will be a light upon your family,” Nerdanel found herself whispering, and though she had no gift with portents and futures, she heard the prophesy there nonetheless.  
  
“A light that is so desperately needed within a family of flames,” Findis commented wryly. “He will be a buffer in many a storm, already that I can see.” Findis' words tapered off as she spoke, a pale blonde brow raised as she took in the sight of Nerdanel and the baby in her arms. “You look well with him, if it is not impertinent of me to say so. You and my half-brother have seen over a decade of marriage already, is a child in your future?”  
  
The question caught her like a blow, unaware. Nerdanel blinked, her customary reply of _not just yet_ every time her mother asked, and _the future holds what it holds_ to everyone else suddenly changing to, “Fëanáro does not wish for children.” The words were dropped onto the air like rain upon the ground, fat and splattering.  
  
She had not realized how much the words hurt to say until she spoke them . . . spoke them when the baby boy in her arms was such a warm weight, his smiling mouth snaring at something deep inside of her and _pulling_.  
  
“Oh . . . I am sorry,” Findis said, her cheeks flushing as she realized what she had unwittingly stepped into. “I . . . I only meant to say that Fëanáro did not allow himself to enjoy his father's family as it grew. I had thought that, with a family of his own . . .” her voice faded, speaking not to Nerdanel in that moment before her eyes cleared. “And yet, it is rude of me to speak where I have no such say. In whatever shape your family continues on as, I wish you both every possible happiness.”  
  
“You are family,” Nerdanel said, and found that she meant every word. Meant them even where Fëanáro pretended that he did not. “And, as such, I welcome your counsel. I thank-you, Findis, for your insight.”  
  
Findis nodded, still uncomfortable, and yet Nerdanel had no wish for her to feel so. It was . . . an old argument between her husband and she. An endless circle of words and their weight.  
  
 _The_ _Valar be damned, Nerdanel, but why can't you understand that it was_ my _birth that_ _killed her!_ he had once smashed the bust she had been sculpting in rage at her inability to let the subject go. _I killed her!_ _I_ _drained her of her_ _very soul -_ _drained her_ _to the point that_ _she_ yearned _for death and found it. Do you not understand how that would destroy me if I were to do the same to you?_ _Can you not understand that I would not be able to bear it?_  
  
At the memory, she felt her heart twist, each pain her husband felt shared and experienced a hundred fold by her. Her spirit ached at the memory, and as if her distress had summoned him, she looked up when a hush came upon the crowd. A hush that meant . . .  
  
“Fëanáro,” Nerdanel greeted as he approached, more warmth leeching into her voice than she would normally allow in such a public place. The crowd parted for him like water around a stone, whispers behind hands filling the air as Finwë caught his son's gaze at the head of the room and tried to hold it.  
  
 _I am not . . ._ _If you_ _too_ _were to_ _fade away_ _. . . Already my mind hangs upon a_ _precipice_ _, and_ _there are times when_ _I_ _fear the flames that_ _burn_ _within_ _me_ _. . ._ _I know,_ _if you were ever to leave me, in any way . . ._ _I am not strong enough to bear such a thing._  
  
And then, softer . . .  
  
 _It is why I cannot understand why he needed another after her. You_ consume _me, and the idea of sharing my soul, my body and mind, with any other . . . What about me was so lacking that he felt the urge to seek another wife? To bear another child? What about me was not enough? Or, did I simply remind him of her to the point where he could not bear to look at me? Indis is everything Míriel was not, and perhaps he needed that . . . needed something more . . ._  
  
His own deepest thoughts and fears were those the court so callously whispered now, striking her husband as much as they struck the King on his throne. But Fëanáro ignored the whispers, tilting his head up as if in challenge as they grew. Just the same, he ignored his father's stare – the flickering there, as if looking for approval, for _forgiveness_ \- as he took his place by his wife and the little prince she held in her arms.  
  
Nerdanel watched his gaze as it flickered, as it swallowed, taking on a note of the possessive and the consuming. It was a look she had known since he had first expressed his desire to court her, and she had turned him down, thinking him to be insincere in his wishes.  
  
Now it was a look that sent heat up and down her spine. It was a look that sent a yearning to the deep parts of her bones. She understood then that a child was a desire of his heart as much as it was of hers, and she wished . . .  
  
“Your brother,” she tilted little Arafinwë in her arms, and for the first, Fëanáro did not correct her. He did not say _half_ as he rested one hand upon her shoulder, and lifted another to touch the soft down of the babe's cheek.  
  
Arafinwë, delighted by the new face before him, reached out and latched onto Fëanáro's finger. He gurgled happily as he tried to stuff the captured digit into his mouth, and rather than draw his hand away, Fëanáro smiled. There was something soft about the look, something tender. Nerdanel felt her stomach twist as if before a great fall, knowing that if she pressed the issue again, her husband would give . . . her husband would _break_.  
  
And in that moment, she yearned so very dearly.  
  
 _I will be no_ _Míriel_ , she thought fiercely. _I will not blaze on and out from the heat of you._ _You will find that I am no such empty flame,_ _to be_ _so easily blown out.._  
  
The words were a lie, she would someday come to know, but not in the way she thought them then.  
  
For then, her bond with her husband meant that Fëanáro caught on to the tail end of her thoughts, hearing them as words spoken into his own mind. She felt his soul shimmer, full as it was with love for her, and she _knew_ . . .  
  
When she passed Arafinwë back to Findis' arms, the baby's face actually turned down for the loss of Fëanáro to his eyes. At the same time, she felt her husband's puzzlement when he realized that he too had no wish to give the boy back to his sister. He wanted as _she_ wanted then, and Nerdanel felt hope blaze in her mind as she took his hand in her own.  
  
 _Seven children_ , she pushed her challenge across her thoughts to him. _I want seven children_.  
  
 _Seven_ _children_ _?_ Came his reply, playful over the undercurrent of unease he felt, the undercurrent of _fear_.  
  
 _Seven . . ._ _six sons, if you wish, but I would like at least one daughter_ , she confirmed, raising a brow in reply. _That is . . . u_ _nless you feel yourself_ unequal _to the challenge._  
  
 _Never that_ , came the low promise in reply, a heat in his thoughts, ever waiting as embers to take up as flames. _And yet, you suggest that we do little else for the next foreseeable_ _century or two_ _. . ._  
  
Uncaring of the court and their eyes, Fëanáro turned, and captured her mouth in a short, breathless kiss. When he drew away, he did so only so that he could share her breath. A hand rested on her cheek as he looked on her in humble awe, and once again, the flicker of vulnerability there . . . the flicker of _fear_ , stole her heart anew.  
  
“I promise to live,” she said aloud, giving her vow, swearing her oath. “You will not be rid of me so easily, Curufinwë Fëanáro.”  
  
He did not answer her, but he did rest his brow against her own, and a part of her once again marveled that she could be something strong for the impossible flame of his spirit before her. She could be as cool water and winding river, soothing the great inferno of his soul.  
  
 _A child_ , she thought, something giddy rising within her for the thought. Then, a child they would have.


	20. "who touches the pupil of my eye"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aulë/Yavanna & Saruman || Námo/Vairë || Thingol/Melian || Námo & Lúthien|| Nerdanel & Aulë || Prompts: _See, Hear, Touch, Sense, Smell_ \- 250 word drabbles
> 
>  **Warning** : There are mentions of torture and suicide in the second drabble, which may be triggering for some.

  
**See**  
  
Earlier, the halls of Aulë had been chaos – accusations and flames and laughter filling the air as secrets were overturned and loyalties were revealed. Curunír alone had had to fight to conceal the satisfaction he had felt at Mairon's betrayal – confident that with Aulë's _admirable one_ now gone to the fallen, all would see him loyal and powerful at his Master's side, as he always had been . . . That night, after his fellow Maiar departed, he returned to the forges, wishing to see the head place of the workshop – his place, now that the other was no more.  
  
His thoughts faltered when he turned the corner to see Aulë himself sitting still and unblinking before Mairon's place. The Vala's great shoulders were hunched and his strong face was etched with grief as he rested a hand upon the anvil, as if he were a tangible father of flesh and bone mourning the loss of a child. Curunír had never questioned his worth in his Master's eyes before. Maiar were tools – the same as a steady chisel or a strong hammer, and he had never . . .  
  
But Aulë lingered, tears unfalling from a body that had not the ability to weep - and Curunír stood, transfixed. He watched until the Lady Yavanna herself entered the forge, a place she normally loathed, to comfort her husband. Her touch (that had made the great forests reach for the heavens, that had coaxed the first harvest from the land) was soft on the stone of her husband's brow. The nest of antlers atop her head bowed with her grief, shared as it was from her husband's soul. Not a word was said where none were needed - until, finally, Curunír stepped back into the shadows, his victory hollow in the shadow that Mairon left behind.  
  
.

.  
  
 **Hear**  
  
At first, Námo had not understood his purpose in his Father's plan. What need was there for a guardian of souls in a young world, a deathless world? But then Melkor had sewn his discord, and Eru himself had breathed his will, and Námo _understood_.  
  
Though the years had hardened him, had turned his judgments absolute and his pity to iron, he could still hear those first souls who passed through his halls when he closed his eyes. The first deaths in Arda had been of the Firstborn – both of the Elves whom Melkor had deformed so grotesquely, and those they had slain at their master's command. Those days had been dark, with Manwë numb at the enormity of his brother's betrayal, and the battles over the skies of Middle-earth fierce as the Valar sought to chain their wayward kinsman before he could do more harm to the world he had poured his very essence into.  
  
The first soul to grace his halls had been a mother who had refused to give birth to an Orc-child. Her flesh was mutilated by the black fire that Melkor had used to change the song of her soul, the song of her _child's_ soul, but her eyes were bright and defiant as she stood before the Lord of the Dead, unwilling to seek penance for her crime.  
  
Námo closed her eyes and gave her spirit the rest she deserved, there to stay until the day he could give _both_ of them life again. Afterward, he had hunched over as dry retches wracked his form, spirit though it was. Vairë alone had seen him weep that time, and that time only. Bitterly, he had asked Eru if _this_ had been his will in creating the world, if _this_ was truly the grand crescendo of his song . . . only to hear silence in reply.  
  
.

.  
  
 **Touch**  
  
Eglador was alive with songs of rejoicing for the return of their King. Still unused to her physical body, Melian walked carefully, arm in arm with Thingol's as she curiously took in the beat of her heart, the dance of her lungs underneath the fragile parchment of her skin. Beneath her hand, she could feel her husband in a tangible sense, warm and solid and _alive_ in a way foreign to the Ainur.  
  
All around them was the sound of laughter, joy and revelry and _light_ for a people who lived in the darkness of Arda marred. At that too, Melian knew awe.  
  
As they walked, a little girl cut before their path. The smiling creature curtseyed, giving her new Queen a flower before darting off again, trailing giggles in her wake. Curiously, Melian watched her go, the flower cradled in her hand as if it were a bloom of Yavanna.  
  
“What is she?” Melian asked her husband, entranced. “She is so small . . .”  
  
“She is a child,” Thingol answered, bemused by how new the world was to her. “Were you ever one?” he asked curiously.  
  
“We . . . my siblings and I were created, fully formed from the thoughts of the Valar – much as the Unbegotten awakened at Cuiviénen,” Melian answered him. “I have those I could call my parents, in your way of things. But we . . . _I_ , never watched families grow. We brought life into being, but this . . .”  
  
She felt tears pricking at her eyes as she suddenly understood just why her years in Lórien's gardens had been filled with discontentment, an ache of spirit she had not then understood. She understood why even her centuries of enchantment with Elu had not been enough, always yearning for _more_ as she had . . .  
  
. . . for this was _life_ before her, full to the touch and hers for the taking.  
  
.

.  
  
 **Sense**  
  
Lúthien, daughter of Melian, came proud before his throne.  
  
Instead of her soul finding peace at her passing, she instead begged to see he who was sundered from her – Beren, fighting his own fight on the shores of mortal death. She cried of her pains, her hardships, her _love_ ; pleading until her song became at last wordless - a cry of spirit so great that Námo had never heard its like before, and doubted he would ever hear again.  
  
And it was not just Mandos whom Lúthien pleaded her case before. Námo opened his mind to all of his kindred - to Varda and Manwë, who cared deeply about Melian's blood; and Nienna, who wept for the unprecedented nature of their love. Ulmo whispered of the sorrows of Middle-earth, the plight of those toiling in Arda marred . . . _Even lower than Melian does Lúthien set her sights. It is unnatural_ , Tulkas grunted, but there was a softness to the hard line of his spirit. He was not as unaffected as he professed.  
  
“Valinor can heal the wounds of your soul, child,” Námo said gently. “You shall forget Beren, son of Barahir, and know peace. You shall be content.”  
  
“But why would I ever want to forget Beren?” Lúthien wept. “For I would live one life with him, over all of the ages of the world alone, and count myself as blessed.”  
  
And an idea rose in the mind of Death. An idea, and a price . . .  
  
“ _Please_ ,” she breathed.  
  
A whisper rose from Manwë, reflecting the mind of Eru – approving the decision he made. And Námo turned his will on the spark of the One that made up Lúthien's soul.  
  
Since the dawn of time, the will of Eru had taken much from so many. But, this once, Death would give something back in return.  
  
.

.  
  
 **Smell**  
  
She remembered what she had felt when her husband died, how she had felt the part of her mind that was his _burn_ as he had burned. Now, all she could smell was blood and smoke and _flame_ as three tiny lights were extinguished inside of her. . . _her sons_ . . . taken by their Oath.  
  
Nerdanel shrieked in frustrated rage, and with a violent gesture, she swept the project she had been working on to the ground. Satisfaction filled her as the marble shattered, broken pieces scattering everywhere.  
  
When she opened her her eyes, Aulë himself was standing before her, pity in the great cast of his eyes. “My child,” he breathed, his voice like the rumble of the forge, “How my heart grieves for you.”  
  
“How can you . . .” Nerdanel forced the words out past her lips. She was still hunched over, unable to stand. But her eyes were dry - for she would not let herself cry, she _would not._ “ . . . how can you _possibly_ understand how I feel?”  
  
“Do you think that we do not feel as you feel?” the Vala chided gently. “I may not know the pain of losing a mate, but I do know the pain of losing a child . . .”  
  
He had loved Fëanáro as she had loved her sons, Nerdanel remembered brokenly. And how Fëanáro had squandered that love, more fey in the end than the husband she had loved so dearly . . . She squeezed her eyes shut, but could hold back her tears no more – and when the Vala knelt to embrace her, she clung to him, letting the smell of earth and hewn stone chase away the scent of blood . . . the scent of _flames_ . . .  
  
For a moment, her grief was shared, and when he released her, she felt that she could breathe with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mairon** : Sauron  
>  **Curunír** : Saruman


	21. "I have filled this void with things unreal"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm/Lúthien, (Celegorm/Aredhel, Lúthien/Beren) || Prompt: _Cage_ , Free-write
> 
>  **Warning** : There are elements of non-con to this. Please skip if that is something that is triggering.

**Cage**  

Celegorm remembered that once, centuries ago, Caranthir had caught a brightly colored blue bird for him. _Since you are always singing with them_ , the little boy had put the poor creature in a cage, gifting it to his elder brother in an effort to bond. Celegorm remembered blinking in surprise as he heard the bird's lament, and instead of praising Caranthir – who was waiting for his gratitude with the pride and joy of a child – he had fumbled with the door of the cage, nearly desperate as he struggled to free the bird from its bonds. He had felt the creature's sorrow, he had felt the creature's pain. His own heart had thundered like the bird's tiny heart, his arms had felt cramped as the bird's wings felt cramped, and he could not . . . he _would_ not keep the bird from the sky.  
  
Caranthir had cried when he let the bird fly free, and a part of him had shook so badly that he could not comfort the child. Instead he had snapped at his brother, nearly scathing as he told Caranthir that he should have had the sense not to cage something that so obviously belonged free. Only later, when Nerdanel was sitting with her (then) youngest son and explaining to him that some animals were not made to be kept did Celegorm feel remorse in his heart for his harsh words. He had taken Caranthir into the wood after, and showed to him the way the bird was singing now. It would not have sang so in its cage, he had explained, and finally Caranthir had smiled and _understood_.  
  
The bird had sang so brilliantly then, its blue wings catching the dappled sunlight through the trees and brightening the green underbrush with its song.  
  
It was a memory that came to haunt him more than he would care to admit during the time Lúthien Thingoliel was in his keeping. More than he would like to, indeed.  
  
She was kept in comfort, that he saw to himself – as if he were a magpie laying sparkling trinkets at the feet of the one he tried to lure as his nest-mate. Her rooms were warm and filled with light; appointed with the softest weaves and decorated in the richest colors. Vases of bright flowers lightening the space with their color and scent, elegant in their design and placement. He tried to tempt her with delicacies – that night, her supper was a plate of roasted quail and seasonal vegetables in a rich brown sauce. Next to her plate there was a goblet of red wine, the finest vintage from their cellars, and yet the glass sat untouched. For all of his offerings, Lúthien instead sat as close as she could to the faux window, where the ornate patterns on the frame and the warm light beneath gave the impression of their being above ground. The scroll-work cast shadows upon the pale snow of her skin. He looked, and tried not to think how the shadows looked like bars.  
   
“Have you come to let me go?” she asked with her bird-song voice when he entered.  
  
He let his breath out slowly at the question. He forced his fingers to unfurl, one at a time, from the shape of fists. “Have you decided to marry me?” he returned, and the raised brow he received in reply was withering.  
  
They understood each other then.   
  
She turned back to the window after a moment, leaving him free to look at her. Unobserved, he took in the perfection of her pale skin and the impossible blackness of her hair, her grey eyes so bright that they seemed touched by silver twilight. If he but closed his eyes and pretended, he could imagine . . .  
  
But no. With her coloring, she could pass for the line of Finwë even, but she was not, and he had to remember . . .  
  
In a moment of frustration, he ran a hand through the white gold of his hair, musing the careful braids he had set before coming. It had not mattered how carefully they were set, he thought, trying not to scowl as he turned from her.   
  
“I have sent a letter to your father, informing him of my intentions,” he said into the silence that fell between them. He watched as she flinched, and felt a perverse sort of joy that she felt the words for the blow they were.  
  
“If it is a union you seek, then I can tell you that you only move to deepen the divide,” Lúthien said. Her words were soft, but an edge of strength rested beneath the rich sweetness of her voice. It was no woodsman's daughter he tried to bind himself to, that voice reminded him, but rather, the daughter of an Unbegotten King and his celestial Queen, a maiden of both heaven and earth.  
  
There were times when he looked at the captive princess, and saw blue feathers catching the midday sun. They were not his to touch, and yet . . .  
  
“It does not matter,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Your father's love for you is greater than his hatred of my name. With you as my bride, he will have no choice but to treat with us. He would disown you not, not even for this.”  
  
“No,” Lúthien agreed. “No he would not, and yet, he would not pledge his armies to the aid of your Oath, even with I as your bride. It is an empty hope you chase, Fëanorian, and it will cause you nothing but grief in the end.”  
  
She pressed his name at him as if it was a blow of its own, and yet, he did not flinch. It took more than that to wound him, she would come to find.  
   
“Perhaps,” he dismissed her words. “In the beginning I do not doubt it. Yet, I have eternity to wait for him to accept our union, and I am patient. In time, he will see, and he will accept our marriage.”  
  
Lúthien was not convinced. “Then you do not know my father,” she retorted, shaking her head as if in pity. At such a condescension from _her_ \- this lady of the Dark Elves, he felt his blood heat.   
  
Celegorm came to stand by her shoulder, close enough to see where her breath misted the window pane. She looked at him warily, but did not draw away; she would concede no ground to him.  
  
“Have you not of pity, Kinslayer?” she asked next. At that title, he felt only a piercing of feeling before brushing the sensation away with the ease of long practice. “Even _you_ must have known of love, and to stand here and _take_ what you want when I am so very clearly not your soul's match is something that I cannot understand . . . something that I cannot comprehend. Are you so broken amongst your kind that you would rather settle for whatever connection you could wrought with me instead of waiting for she who would complete you?”  
  
Ah, finally _that_ was an arrow that struck its mark better than her petty calling of names. He looked down, as if surprised that he did not bleed as if from a wound on his chest. And yet, instead of touching him as if she would have wished, the words lit something within him. Something dark and angry, something quite nearly _mad_.  
  
“ _She who would complete me_ ,” he repeated her words back to her, his voice low . . . dangerous. “ _Broken amongst my kind_. . . I would say the same of you, say how surprised I am that a daughter of the Moriquendi could love so when I have seen nothing but the opposite from your kind - in my experience, that is.”  
  
His words gave her pause. She was bright, this one, and not just a pretty trinket – another one of the many reasons that she would make for a fine Queen on his arm. At her mortal's side . . . what would she grant to her people but for a bedtime story, a fae tale of romance to brighten the hearts of star struck maidens?  
  
“What happened to her?” Lúthien asked, her voice soft. Where before she had all but refused to look at him, she turned to search his face now. He watched as the iron wrought line of her jaw softened, turned as if by the heat of a forge at her curiosity.  
  
He would not tell her, he first thought. Her ears were not worthy of the tale, and yet . . .“Taken,” he found the words escaping, spilling from his lips as if he could not control their shaping. “Taken, and then dead before her time.”  
  
Lúthien was silent at his reply. She waited for more, he thought. Her beauty was greater than even the great Starkindler in that moment, reminding him of the way his people in Tirion would leave offerings at the feet of her statue and hope for the blessings of Varda in return. He felt that way now, praying for her compassion . . . for the understanding of one who was higher than them all.  
  
He loved and hated this ethereal being before him, he knew in that moment. He hated her kind and simple love for her kind and simple mortal, and yet he still felt a grotesque drawing to her in spirit. He felt the need to bow before her and tell her _everything_ , everything from his grief to his losses to the shameful truth of the madness waiting behind his eyes, the same as a shadow waited behind a closed door. His Oath lingered - beckoning, _whispering_ , and there were days when he could not move from the weight of it on his soul, from the blood-lust it settled upon his tongue.  
  
 _I hated my father,_ _m_ _y father who was father to none but his craft in the end_ , he wanted to say. _I was shamefully glad when he d_ _ied, and yet I still cried - cried as he would not have_ _for me_ _. I_ _still_ _swore his Oath, hoping that maybe, he would look on me in love for doing so_ . . . And then, he wanted to tell her, _I was once happy, if you could believe_ _that_ _. I knew Aman in its spring,_ _roaming the forests_ _of Oromë_ _in careless glee and sleeping upon the soft green grass beneath the light of the Trees. In those days I_ _loved she with her voice like the hunt and her eyes like_ _the_ _cool shadow in the wood._ _I loved_ _and loved easily_ _, and never thought twice about the burdens the next day would bring.  
  
_ “She never loved me, not in full,” he found his words coming faster with each syllable spoken, tumbling over each other like a stream falling over stones in a fast cascade. “Always at arms length she would keep me, allowing me to kiss her and touch her, but never binding herself fully in soul to me. It had been a lovely game before the loss of the light, before the rise of my Oath. If she had truly loved me . . . she would not have forsaken me at Losgar. Her sword was stained with blood the same as mine, but she looked on me in horror when she realized what had truly happened at Alqualondë . . . I had thought that crossing the Ice would give her time to realize her error in thinking, but she only looked on me with such scorn in Hithlum, and refused even my hand in kinship . . . I, I did not see her again for many years. She sought me out centuries later – to apologize or allow me to apologize, I will never know, for I ignored her, keeping to the woods so that I would not have to see her again . . . and she, she looked for me. She looked for me, and instead found _him_.”  
  
Lúthien's eyes turned wary, as if she guessed where his story went. As if she _knew_.  
  
“She was found by a Dark Elf, one of your kind named Eöl - a lesser lord leasing the forest of Nan Elmoth from your father,” he could not speak Thingol's name, even in rage. It was all _his_ fault, a part of him could not help but think. If he had only checked the rabid animal on his lands, then Aredhel would still be alive. Alive, and possibly . . .  
  
But no.  
  
“Eöl enchanted her; he took her to wife with his spells, and bound her to his spirit by force. She lived for years with that _monster_ as her mate before finding the courage to escape with her son. And then did I meet them again, giving them horses and supplies so that she could return to her kin in Gondolin. She would not look me in the eye, sparing me from seeing her bond with her husband therein. But she said that she forgave me. She said that she wished . . .”  
  
But he could not finish the thought, not even to her. The words were Aredhel's, and the listening was his. _He should have been yours_ , was all that she said in regret when his eyes found her son. _Lómion_ , so pale and dark by turns, with eyes that cut like knives. She would say no more, and then she was reining her horse away and he was left only with a wound of spirit even greater than the wound of his Oath, the weight of his sins.  
  
“And I wished,” Celegorm muttered, taken by his memories, “I wished so very dearly . . . but then she left, and I let her go; let her go back to her kin while her husband followed. Eöl tried to kill his son with a poisoned spear rather than swear allegiance to Turgon, and he instead struck Aredhel - who jumped forward like a she-bear to protect her ill-begotten offspring. She died at the hands of a _Doriathrim_ , and I . . . I am still here. Here when I should have done more . . . so much more than I did.”  
  
Something about her eyes had turned light with his words. A small smile touched her mouth, as if she was soothed by the proof that his cold Fëanorian heart could love. She was _soothed_ , and not _warned_ \- thinking him soft to the touch, rather than a hunting hound who had been kicked one too many times and was all but snapping his teeth against the chains that held him.  
  
She turned towards him, putting her back to the window for the first as she took his hands within her own. Her hands were small, he thought, her palms smooth and soft, so unlike Aredhel with each earned callus and scar. Still, her grip was strong.   
  
“Then you understand,” Lúthien breathed, her eyes brightening with such a hope, so much so that he then hated her for it; hated her with something that was white and and hot and _consuming_ within him. “You _understand_ ,” she took to pleading. “Beren . . . he is out there fighting for my hand, _dying_ for the sake of loving me, and I . . . I see such visions when I close my eyes. Blood will be spilled in rivers for the name of our quest. It is no other's burden to bear, but bear it they shall . . . It is not fair to any, and only _I_ can stop the spilling of blood, but only if you _let me go_.”  
  
“It matters not,” Celegorm finally said, letting his words sink in cruel and unkind. “Your lover marches to his death, and I have helped send him there. Your father set the price of your hand with that which is not his to give, and for his audacity, Beren will die. Beren will die, and you will have only _me_ left in the end.”  
  
Her brow crinkled. She did not understand, he saw. She did not _see_.  
  
Lúthien looked then, looked into his eyes, and drew back at what she saw there. “But you loved her,” she whispered, unable to understand. “Your soul recognizes her as your other half, and it shows in your eyes . . . How could you take me to wife, when your very spirit would reject the union in memory of her?”  
  
He looked, and when she blinked, he could see a shadow of the mortal man there. She had not given herself bodily to Beren, or else he would not have been able to bear looking too deeply into her eyes for more than a moment. Even still, she was bound to him. A shadow of a link between souls grew, and he knew such a black feeling then – knowing that her _Moriquendi_ eyes could know love and fight when Aredhel was dead by the hands of her kind, and he . . .  
  
It did not matter what their souls wanted, he thought. It did not _matter_ , and he would make her see, see that -  
  
Before he knew it, he was tilting her chin up and claiming her mouth in a fierce, savage kiss. His fingers turned bruising on her skin, his lips were unforgiving against her own as he took what he wanted, as if desperate to prove to her that they were stronger than the choices of their spirits, stronger than the wants of their souls. Did she not know that this was a truth he had been learning for centuries? And this sheltered child of twilight would _learn_ as he had learned, and learn the lesson well.  
  
He held a hand to the back of her head when she struggled to draw away. He was stronger than her, and she was surprised, beating her small hands against his chest and trying to shove him away. He used her gasp of protest to thrust his tongue inside of her mouth, searching for something even he could not name. Looking, _desperately_ , to find -   
  
\- she bit his mouth then, clamping down on his lower lip until blood filled their kiss, sharp and metallic in taste. Startled, he shoved her away in both surprise and pain, and from the violence of his actions she lost her step and stumbled. She fell to the floor in a rumple of blue and gold skirts, blinking up at him from a halo of too black hair.  
  
He wiped his mouth, and drew his hand back red. If a bird she was, then one with talons, he thought, but did not say. And yet, it did not matter. She had nowhere to go, and he had forever to wait. She would have no choice, as _Aredhel_ had no choice, and did she not see – you never got what you wanted in this Valar forsaken land. Everyone in Endórë was cursed as he was cursed, even she with her _nightingale_ voice and her _starlit_ eyes. And now, they were stuck with each other.  
  
He went to the table, and picked up her forgotten glass of wine. He drained it in one swallow, letting the dark flavor mix with his blood and wash it away. The taste stung against his torn lip, but he ignored it as he poured himself another glass from the waiting decanter.  
  
He sat at the table, his long legs stretched out and his brow shadowed as he watched her slowly rise to her feet again. She watched him carefully the whole time, as if waiting for him to make another move towards her. She touched her mouth, as if by doing so she could wipe the memory of him away, and for some reason, the motion angered him more than anything else.   
  
 _N_ _o more, Tyel_ _ko_ , Irissë would laugh, kissing his mouth one last time, breathless as she turned from him, and then he was chasing her again, always confident of his catching her. _Someday_ , he had thought so naively then. So _stupidly_ . . .  
  
And he was tired of waiting.  
  
“You may not want me now, but soon _he_ will be dead, and you will have nothing left. Morgoth reigns in the uttermost north with my father's life's work worn so grossly upon his brow, and his defeat will come only through the efforts of all in these lands. Perhaps a union between our peoples will be all you can make of your life, and for that you will settle for me – even if it takes an age for you to accept my suit. But my Oath has taught me patience, if nothing else. It makes no difference how or why your mind is changed, but it _will_ be changed. It is not what either of us want, but it shall have to be enough.”  
  
Instead of the fierce, defiant look he was used to seeing on her face, her brow soothed at his words. Something like pity touched her eyes as she walked to him with small, hesitant steps.  
  
“Dear Tyelkormo,” she whispered in his forbidden tongue, “so unlucky in life, and so heartbroken in love; stained by loss and Oath. You smite love with your pain, but know that I do not hold you to ill for it. I will not be long here,” she said, her voice ringing softly – _horribly_ in his ears. His skin crawled in warning, trembling from the whisper of her power, the might of her mother Maia running strong and unchecked in her veins. “But know, after I am gone, that life is more than pieces on a board casting shadows. I pray that you find peace, and your soul rest from all that burdens it. I forgive you, though you think that you have done nothing worth seeking forgiveness for.”  
  
Then she kissed his forehead as a queen would offer a token to a favored warrior, as a mother would comfort her child. Her mouth felt like a brand against his always too-warm skin, and for a moment he could not swallow for the way his eyes burned, for the way his heart ached in his chest. She drew back, touched his cheek, his chin, before letting her fingers fall to touch the star of Fëanor upon his doublet once, and then she touched him no more.  
  
Instead she turned back to the window, humming beneath her breath as she looked away from him, her eyes already lost to where her mortal love fought for his life to the north. And Celegorm sat there and listened to his nightingale in her gilded cage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Moriquendi** : Dark Elf, one who has not seen the light of the Two Trees.  
>  **Endórë** : Middle-earth, in Quenya.
> 
> Soooo, I stretched canon with the whole Celegorm/Aredhel thing, but it is one of my favourite what-ifs to stretch. I don't agree that the Fëanorians were complete villains, or even good people forced to do bad things - they were simply very troubled, complex individuals and further proof that nothing in Tolkien's work was completely black and white. I have a soft spot for them, a big one, at that. :) 
> 
> The title here comes from "Roll Away Your Stone" by Mumford and Sons, which is pretty much Celegorm/Lúthien with banjos. And, speaking of, the Celegorm/Lúthien idea was _completely_ inspired by [Ebonykitty552](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKitty552/pseuds/EbonyKitty552), who has some amazing vignettes on the subject. You should check them out, immediately. ;)


	22. "in distant dark places"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel/Eöl || Prompt: _Stay_ , Free-write
> 
> Because I am afraid that Celegorm was not horribly fair to Eöl in the last ficlet. But, it _was_ his POV and all. So, now . . .
> 
> **Warning** : In this ficlet there are shades of dub-con, spousal abuse (not how you think), and implied adult activities. If any of that bothers you, please hit the back button. :)

  
**Stay**  
  
Later, she will only remember that it had felt like a dream; with the shadows in the forest stretching on and on, pressing in against her with the intimacy of a lover. Distantly, she remembered the tales that surrounded this wood, this deep place where no sunlight reached in memory of the Maia and her stolen King; darkness hiding the secrets of Nan Elmoth and holding them tight. Lust and love and obsession at first sight, it was a fey tale of Doriath's beginning, and yet all too often the elements of unwillingness were taken from it. Thingol did not resist Melian's ensorcelments, the stories would later say, for Thingol too loved the celestial maiden at first sight, Thingol too lost his heart and never sought to seek it back. And yet, Melian had not stopped to ask him otherwise, Melian had not paused to make sure of the heart in her thrall.  
  
Now, Aredhel walked in that same fog, lost somewhere between half awake and half asleep. She tried to keep her thoughts alive and sharp, letting them guide her step and keep her eyes aware. _Tur_ _vo_ _, how you would laugh at me to know how lost I have become_ , she would speak with the shadows as she walked. _Tyelko, what a tale I shall have to tell you when at last I return. And how we shall laugh . . ._ _Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Egalmoth, I do hope_ _that_ _you are not too_ _terribly_ _cross with me for escaping your watch. I hope you escaped yourselves at that, and escaped my brother's wrath as well, for you deserved it not . . ._ _What a laugh we shall all have when again we meet!_ _  
_  
But it wasn't her half-cousin with his lion's mane of white hair, or even her brother's kind eyes and worried mouth who found her – instead it was a man who at first was the shadows themselves, until he was then not. Her memory of their first meeting was fuzzy around the edges, as if she tried to view it through a wall of water. She remembered only long gloved fingers, and a face so pale that it could not have ever seen the sun, and she had felt . . . _something_ jolt through her when his eyes had found hers without blinking.  
  
It was a curse of Nan Elmoth, she would later think, a memory of the witch-queen and her unbegotten-king staining the ground and making it run with enchantments. For _something_ had settled beneath her skin at that first meeting. _Something_ had crawling alongside her bones and burrowed within the deep places of her flesh, entwining itself so irrevocably with her spirit that she could not shake the sensation away. She had not _want_ _ed_ to shake it away when he had bent his head to kiss her, and _som_ _e_ _thing_ had awakened in her. Something secret . . . something dark and deep. Something _wild_.  
  
And now she was blinking back the darkness, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light as she set about her task. It was during the day now - past noontime, her senses told her, for there was no sun for her to tell the time by. The lanterns of Eöl's halls were lit with a strange inner fire, casting an eerie non-light over every surface. She looked pallid beneath the half light, Aredhel thought, like something not completely real.  
  
Not completely real . . . and yet, the link now bonding her soul to the other was real enough. The ache between her legs and the bruises at her hips and the stinging at her mouth where her lip had been torn, all of that was real as well. She knew that there would be matching marks on his back from her nails, biting in deep from where she had taken his blood in turn. She, she was . . .  
  
She swallowed, unable to complete the thought.  
  
She was _m_ _arried_ in the eyes of her kind, she forced herself to acknowledge that truth, even to herself. She was bound to this Dark Elf as his mate . . . the idea of it settled numbly in the pit of her stomach. At the back of her mind, her bond with her new husband rumbled like black waters in the wood. It undulated against its cradle of stone, curious as it found its new places and settled in deep. And she . . .  
  
For a moment, she could not breathe.  
  
Aredhel sat in her shift, as far away from the bed with its soiled sheets as she could. Her fingers shook as she worked to repair the tear in the seam of her dress. Distantly she remembered fingers becoming impatient – hers or his, she could not remember - and rendering the fabric in two. Her stitches were not even, her hands were sloppy with the needle and thread. Distantly she thought that this was where Itarillë would take her work from her with a sigh and complete the stitching. _So impatient_ , her niece would tease, and at the memory, Aredhel slipped with the needle. She felt its tip prick her skin.  
  
With a hiss, she put her finger between her lips and sucked the blood away. The bite of pain was more irritating than anything else, but like a tugging on a leash, it had turned _his_ attention to her. She felt her husband move against her mind, even as she heard him by the door, and -  
  
Perhaps it was silly of her to cover the tops of her breasts, the exposed length of her legs, when he had already seen it all, but she still stood and held the dress before her like a shield. Instinctively, she set her stance in defense, as if expecting an attack. There was a flickering in his knife-cut eyes when she did so, but she could not tell if it was amusement or irritation until she felt his emotions against her mind – a curious mixture of both, then.  
  
At his amusement, something lit inside of her - a black and desperate rage that had her holding her dress in one fisted hand as she stalked forward and -  
  
\- the skin around his eye would blacken quite nicely, she thought triumphantly. It would darken to match the rest of him.  
  
Eöl's head had snapped back from the surprise of her fist connecting with his face, but he kept his feet against her blow – something that would have impressed Aredhel had she not been so _angry_. Gingerly, he reached up to touch at the already bruising flesh, pressing at his orbital bone to look for fractures beneath the skin.  
  
“Perhaps,” when he spoke, his voice was like smoke, dry and dark, “I deserved that.”  
  
Again she felt it, that mixture of irritation and amusement - irritation for her unexpected flare of violence, and amusement for the wildfire spark of her rage. _Shut up_ , she tried to push away the part of her mind that was now his, but she could not, no matter how she tried.  
  
She let her dress crumble to the ground, forgotten as she pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. The throbbing there only grew worse the more she fought against it, and she _hated_ how the pressure seemed to abate when he stepped closer to her. His step was hesitant, as if he approached a wounded animal in the wood. When he reached out a hand to touch her, something inside of her skipped a beat, wanting -  
  
“What have you done to me?” she asked him, her words a fierce hiss of breath.  
  
“Nothing that you did not want,” Eöl raised a brow wryly in reply. Though she was not looking at him, she knew he was looking at the bed, their _marriage_ bed, and at the reminder, her anger fanned forth again.  
  
“I was not _me_ then,” she countered, stammering her words out. She opened her eyes, her every syllable growing more pronounced and heated as she spoke them. “It was as if I was in a fog . . . Did you poison me? Drug me? Did you put something in my food, in my drink . . . is it in the Valar forsaken _air_ around us. Tell me, _what did you do to me_?”  
  
This time she was the one stalking forward, and he the one backing away. Though the collar of his tunic rose to cover his neck, she could still see a purple mark on the underside of his jaw. He was shaking as she came closer, his long white hands clenching in fists at his sides.  
  
“I could ask the same of you,” he responded in a low voice, a _dangerous_ voice. “I found you – a _bloodstained and cursed Go_ _l_ _odh_ \- lost in the wood, and instead of leaving you to your fate and returning back to my peaceful world, I was drawn to you time and time again. I could not pass you from my thoughts. I could not sleep, I could not eat, and not even the mansions of the Naugrim provided me relief in distraction. There was something . . . _something_ about you that I could not ignore. I felt as if I was going mad, and foolishly I had thought that it was a madness felt the same by you.”  
  
He looked as bewildered as she felt, she realized, some of her ire beginning to cool with that realization. Where the night before he had been hot and liquid beneath her hands, he now stood as straight and unyielding as if he had steel coating his bones. He was unmovable and dangerous before her, and she . . .  
  
“This damned forest,” she barked out a laugh, pressing her fingers into her temples again. “You know, we once sat before the fire and laughed when Findaráto told us the story of this place. We laughed to think that so great and mighty a king as _Elw_ _ë_ could be snared in the shadows here, even by the might of a Maia. We all said that if we were the ones to be so enchanted, that we would have broken free, that we would have _fought._ And now, here I am . . .” She ran a hand though her hair. It was still wild and tangled from the night before, her braids mused beyond the point of saving. She watched, and felt his eyes follow her hand as it moved.  
  
She stilled her fingers, lost in the black mesh of her hair, and watched where his eyes paused as well.  
   
She turned her head, curious then. She could feel his thoughts, and the more she looked, the more she could see . . . he was terrified to speak with her, she realized. He did not often have the presence of those who were his equal; only his wispy Avari servants, so wan and fey that she had at first thought them ghosts her mind conjured when he had first showed to her his home. He was not often amongst his peers at Thingol's court – where he was a curious oddity, even amongst his kindred. The Naugrim were course in manner, and cruder yet in speech, and now, here he was speaking to a Lady of the Noldor, and wishing that he instead spoke with a crossing of blows or a pressing of bodies - anything was better than the words he now struggled with, the spell of the forest that he did not have the speech for. For a moment she felt a flicker of affinity with him, a moment like the light as it glinted off the steel of a blade.  
  
“Then you understand me,” Eöl said, his dry voice softening as he felt her presence search at his mind. He moved to hold his hands together as if he needed to give his fingers a task, any task, in which to keep them busy. She looked down at his hands for a moment, distracted.  
  
“I do understand,” she replied, and found that she meant it. “And yet, by that same grace you should understand me when I say that this was a mistake. I do not belong here, and I have no wish to be bound to you - just as certainly as you must wish to be free of me.”  
  
At that, something in his eyes flickered. Perhaps he had been a victim of the forest for longer than she, too long, she thought - this creature who never stepped into the light of the sun, who cared but little to even begin and understood the wonder of the Trees. She . . . she could not imagine living her days beneath these sunless eaves. Did he realize why she could not stay here? Why she _would_ not?  
  
Her heart twisted in her chest, pained at the thought of what she had left behind her. And yet, it was not just the thought of what she left behind, but what she would give up if she left now that caused her breath to catch. In a moment of honesty, she knew she would grieve either decision, and at the thought . . .  
  
She remembered grey eyes with their speckling of green. She remembered white gold hair and promises, stolen kisses but never anything more. And oh, how easily she had given in to another when, for centuries, she had -  
  
“There is another?” Eöl asked, stepping forward. His voice was equal parts uncertainty and hesitancy, but jealousy touched the underside of his syllables as he gently traced the side of her face with the very tips of his fingers. For a moment she hated how her skin awakened at the simplest of touches. “I did not feel -”  
  
“ - my heart is mine own,” she responded fiercely, batting his hand away. She forced her thoughts of Tyelkormo into a chamber of steel within her mind, shutting them away and sealing them so deep that not even her husband could see the thoughts for how well they were hid. “I do not take kindly to the idea of being possessed by any.”  
  
“And yet . . .” he let his words tapper off. Instead of speaking, he reached out to touch the tip of her chin, tilting her face up so that he could look into her eyes. In his gaze, their newly wrought bond _burned_.  
  
“I do not even know you,” she whispered, something small and childlike touching her voice as she said so. She felt as the little girl who would cry into her father's chest when her brothers would go off and leave her behind, and now . . . “I do not know you,” she tried to explain. “I do not _love_ you . . .”  
  
“Yet,” he said softly. For the first his words picked up a measure of confidence, a measure of certainty. “You do not love me _yet_."  
  
Aredhel felt a flare of panic for the longevity his words implied, the _finality_ . . . He was not going to fight this, she realized. He was content in the forest's thrall, and wanted not to move out from beneath its shadows. He wanted . . .  
  
“Let me go,” she said, a note of desperation leeching into her voice. “You do not wish for I as a bride - _any_ other will be more suitable.”   
  
 _I cannot stay here_ , she thought. _With no sun, no moon, only_ _this_ _endless shadow. What will my family think_ _of my fate_ _? Will they think me dead? Will_ _Turukáno_ _hate himself for not trying harder to prevent me from going? Will Tyelkormo turn his mouth and clench his fists in grief, thinking of lost chances?_ _Please,_ she thought then, her lungs an ache in her chest as they expanded, _do not give one more reason to make my father_ _weep._  
  
No, she knew then. She could not stay here. She _w_ _ould_ not -  
  
“I am leaving,” she said, a calm certainty forming her words. She reached down to pick up her torn dress, already calculating how she would leave this house, how she would find her way out of the forest beyond. “I am leaving, and you will show me the way.”  
  
“No,” Eöl said, the one soft word cutting into her plans like an arrow through mist. “No, I shall not.”  
  
Fine then, Aredhel thought. She could take care of herself. She always had, and this would be no different.  
  
Perhaps he saw her determination, for he grabbed her wrists before she could move to escape him. As if their bodies knew something their mind did not, his grasp moved from restraining to pleading in the space of a moment. His thumb was callused where it traced runes over the skin on the back of her hand, but there was a question in the touch – a plea, plain for her eyes to see.  
  
“Stay with me,” he asked her, the words falling from his mouth like hammer falls. “Allow me to learn your heart, and then you may make your decision again when the time is right. Allow me . . .” he faltered, as if unused to speaking so many words together. “Allow me to . . .”  
  
But he could not finish his thought. There was something tight in the set of his hands then, something desperate. And Aredhel felt . . .  
  
“Please,” was all he said, and she knew he would say no more. If she left then, he would let her go. But neither would he show her the way, and always, she knew with a whisper of fact, the shadows of Nan Elmoth would lead her back to him.  
  
And so, for now . . .  
  
She turned her wrist. She settled her palm against his own and entwined her fingers with his. His skin was so very pale, she could not help but think, even when compared to her own. “Yes,” she said, and felt as if she was speaking with a voice other than her own, “I will stay with you.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elwë** : Thingol  
>  **Findaráto** : Finrod  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Naugrim** : Sindarin term for the Dwarves.  
>  **Golodh** : Sindarin term for the Noldor.


	23. "we choose our flesh over bones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon & Fingon & Maedhros || Prompt: _Blank, Empty_ , Free-write
> 
>  **Warning** : There is content that deals with the aftermath of torture in the second ficlet.

  
**Blank**  
  
“So it is true . . . you are going after him.”  
  
There was nothing in Turukáno's voice when he spoke; no inflection or emotion of tone. His words were a blank stretch of sound, but it was a tone Findekáno had learned well not to trust, knowing as he knew that it contained deeper wells of feeling within – as a strong tree with deep roots, stretching far beneath the ground.  
  
His own answer was simple in reply. “Yes,” he said as he tied the last cord on his pack. Within he had packed food and water and medical supplies, blankets and bandages and anything else useful he could think of. He was not sure of what he would find in the halls of Angband black, but he was prepared for anything.  
  
A long moment passed between them, rife with tension. “I do not understand,” Turukáno finally said. When Findekáno looked, his brother was standing in the doorway, his folded arms and great height nearly filling it.  
  
Findekáno released a breath, as if preparing for a battle.  
  
“You know why I must go,” he said softly. “I cannot leave him there. I _will not_ leave him to Morgoth's torments – and yet, I cannot ask anyone else to risk themselves on such a venture. And so, alone I go. You must understand.”  
  
“No,” Turukáno responded frankly, his voice still carefully blank, still carefully level. “No, I do not understand. The Sons of Fëanáro have made their stand, and their stand is not alongside us. Your people need you now, your _family_ needs you. They do not need for you to go and martyr yourself on some fool's errand – which is surely what you do now.”  
  
Calmly, Findekáno put his pack aside. He reached down to pick up his scabbard, buckling the leather strap over his shoulder and underneath his opposite arm. He did not look at his brother.  
  
“Our people are in good hands,” he said, as gently as he could. “Our family is strong, as well. I do not plan on dying, Turvo. I plan on living - I plan on _returning_.”  
  
“You plan to return with _him_ ,” this time, Turukáno's voice was sharp. There was an edge to his words, lined as they were with teeth.  
  
“Yes.” His answer was punctuated by the smooth sound of his sword sliding into its sheath.  
  
Turukáno's gaze flashed with the steel as it was covered. His mouth turned down on his face. “Then you are more a fool than I thought. Morgoth does not lightly give up what is his, and you will not make it out with your life. You go to your death – or worse than that, and you do not seem to care.”  
  
“I cannot _not try_ ,” Findekáno said, a note of the desperate touching upon his voice then. He picked up his cloak, but found that his fingers had trouble with the strings. He could not keep them from shaking. _He is alive,_ his heart seemed to pulse with a frantic beat _. Alive with that monster as lord over him, and every second I tarry is one more second_ _that_ _I leave him as such._ He felt sick with the thought. He had not slept since returning from their cousin's camp, although he knew he would need all of his strength for the venture to come.  
  
“There are some,” Turukáno said, each syllable bitten from his tongue, “who would say that Fëanáro's house has received their due accord from Morgoth's hands. They would say that there is justice in it, even. Fëanáro dead so soon after setting foot upon these lands, and his eldest kept for torment at the Dark One's hands? It is fitting, they say.”  
  
At that, Findekáno's hands made fists. He could not keep the dark look from his eyes, hidden beneath his down-turned lashes. “Fëanáro was mad and fey in the end, and, as such, he is to be pitied – for his mind and his strength was once great,” Findekáno rebuked stiffly. “And Maitimo . . . you heard what Makalaurë said. He did not burn the boats with the others. _He stood aside_. It was not _his_ actions that left us to the Helcaraxë. It was _theirs_.”  
  
He clung to that single piece of information as if the knowledge was all that kept him afloat in white waters. He _needed_ to remember that, needed that to the marrow of his bones. And yet, across from him, Turukáno was not convinced. His mouth made an unkind line as he stepped forward, stalking further into the room. His normally kind and gentle brother was as an animal clawed in that moment, restless and hunting.  
  
“ _He did not burn the boats_ ,” Turukáno mocked, spitting the words out like a curse. “Do you know how foolish that sounds, brother? No, your precious _Russandol_ did not burn the boats, but he did hold a sword. He slaughtered Olwë's kin without quarter, all because they refused to aid Fëanáro in his mad rush for Endórë. Fëanáro did not give the people of Alqualondë time – he did not take the time to reason, the time to convince them. If he had but waited, Arafinwë could have spoken with Olwë his goodfather on our behalf. Our own father could have added his words to Olwë's ears. And if the Teleri could not have been convinced, it would only have taken a scant few years to build a fleet of our own, if we had to.  
  
“But Fëanáro had no such consideration, instead he acted with a sword, and _took_ what he wanted. He was no better than Morgoth himself with his actions – and Maitimo too aided his father's madness, and took the life of another. _Many others_. And it was not just men at Alqualondë – or do you choose to forget that, brother? There were _woman_ , there were _children_ , and your _dear friend_ holds the blood of them all on his hands. Where was his courage to stand up to Fëanáro when _they_ needed his words? _Where was it then_?”  
  
Each word struck him as it was intended. He felt them as bruises against his skin, left from the strongest of blows. Even still, he had to fight the black urge to turn on his brother – to shake him until the words stopped from his mouth and he spoke no more. Did he think that he did not know? Did he think that he so easily forgot? Did he not remember that they too had waded into the blood and flashing swords, unsure of who had attacked who, and . . .  
  
The sons of Fëanáro were not the only ones branded Kinslayers that day, he thought numbly. Turukáno may not have fought, but he . . . though he had not fought to kill, fought he still had until he realized the reason for the conflict, and then it was too late . . . much too late.  
  
“We all acted in ways we wished were different in those last days,” Findekáno said, remembering hurt words on the bloody sands and age old arguments that came at last to blows. _Go, I will not stop you,_ he had said, his lip bleeding, and the knuckles on his right hand sore. _Go, I will not stand in your way._  
  
And now . . .  
  
 _Thirty years_ , Findekáno thought with a pang so tangible that it was as a blade between his rib bones. _Thirty years_. “For thirty years,” he said aloud, “Maitimo has been in that Valar-forsaken place. I can . . . I can _feel_ him now. I can feel the _pain_ he endures, the _guilt_. He does not let himself die – even though he could have time and time again. He clings to life, not for his own sake, but for penance. For what right does he have to let go when so many others have fallen? He is not worthy of death, he feels, and so, he endures. He lives. But no more. Hate and petty wounds have torn this family apart, and I'll stand for it no more. This is a first step in a right direction, and it is a step I shall take.”  
  
Turukáno looked to the side, as if struck. He swallowed, the long line of his throat working as he tried to control the tempest of emotions inside of him. Findekáno could feel his pain and his anger lick at his own skin, and his mind reeled from too many discordant touches against his fëa. No matter what, someone he loved would be hurt in the end, but he could not . . .  
  
“They killed Elenwë,” Turukáno said softly, so softly that Findekáno could hardly hear him until he said in a stronger voice, “They killed Elenwë, and you would just run after one of them as if _she_ could be so easily forgotten . . .”  
  
“The _Ice_ killed Elenwë,” Findekáno said as gently as he could. “Please, brother, for all of our sakes, do not confuse the two in your mind.” He reached out to touch him, to offer comfort, but Turukáno jerked violently away. His storm-grey eyes looked on him as if he was a stranger in that moment, lost in his own grief as he was.  
  
“No,” the word was the fall of a blade through the air. “ _No_. Go then, if you must. Go, die for _him_. I will not mourn you when you fall.”  
  
Findekáno made his mouth a thin line, hearing the note of finality in his brother's voice. He swallowed, wanting to offer words of love as a balm, words of kinship. _I love Fëanor's son with an ancient friendship_ , he wanted to say. _But you are my brother, Tur_ _vo_ _. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, and what hurts you is as a wound to me._ In the end, he said nothing where nothing would be heard. Instead, he shouldered his pack, and turned towards the door.  
  
Turukáno stepped aside. He did not stop him, and neither did he turn to follow him. Findekáno did not wait for him to do either.  
  
And yet, he only made it a step down the corridor before finding Irissë blocking his path. He made a fist of hand over the hilt of his sword, as if prepared for another battle of words. But her eyes were carefully guarded. She who was free with her every feeling now gave nothing away to his searching gaze. She held two sheathed daggers in her hands, their fine leather gleaming soft and subtle in the torchlight.  
  
“Here,” she said simply, thrusting the weapons towards him. “They have a better edge than yours.” At his raised brow, she raised one of her own in reply, daring him to comment on the gift. “They are weighted too heavily for me to have a precise aim with them,” she explained in defense, “and I was going to give them to you anyway.”  
  
Findekáno swallowed. He did not realize what a stone had gathered in his mouth until he tried to speak around it. His eyes burned as he took what she offered. “I thank you, sister.”  
  
Irissë rolled her shoulders, shrugging aside his gratitude. “Be careful you don't loose a finger with those,” her eyes were as weights when she spoke. “They are sharp enough to cut through bone.”  
  
“I will remember,” he said. He attempted to keep his voice level – blank of feeling - but his words came out as a sound of grief in the end. He sounded, he reflected, a bit mad. A bit desperate.  
  
“Good,” Irissë nodded her head before moving to walk past him. She did not say goodbye, she did not wish him well; she did not tell him that she loved him when, most likely, she would never see him again.  
  
“Irissë,” Findekáno stopped her, holding a hand about her wrist. “Please . . .” for a moment, he could not find his voice. “Please . . . look after him for me? I do him a great harm in going, and yet, I cannot . . .”  
  
Irissë's eyes were still unmoved, but something about the stern line of her mouth softened when he said so. She reached up to cover his hand with her own. “I will look after him,” she promised. “As I always do.”  
  
“Good,” Findekáno swallowed, and then turned away. He did not look back behind him – instead, his eyes were turned towards the north, where he could feel the other as he endured.  
  
 _Please_ , he found himself praying, though he knew not whom would listen to such a prayer. _Just hold on, a little while longer._  
  
I am coming for you.  
 **  
**

**.**

**.**

  
**Empty**  
  
He had known of his brother's return since the previous evening.  
  
For the most part, Turukáno had stayed away. There was no way to get close to their Fëanorian guest in a moment of privacy, at any rate. Maitimo's room was a steady influx of healers and attendants, each struggling to repair the extensive damage done by Morgoth's hands. Findekáno himself kept a steady vigil at their cousin's bedside, seemingly carved from stone but for the way he would blink and blearily look on the ruin of Maitimo's body before him, as if the corpse-like figure on the bed was a stranger who hid their true cousin's face. Their father had stepped in to try to get Findekáno to take a rest of his own, but all Nolofinwë had accomplished was to move Findekáno to bathe and change before returning to the other's side to partake in food and rest there.  
  
Turukáno had not come nearer than a glimpse, staying on the other side of the temporary compound and stalking the farthest halls with all of the coiled rage of a creature of claw and fang. Irissë had found him once, and asked him if he was well when it was clear that he was not. Her eyes challenged him, forcing him to speak his pains aloud, but he could not confide even in her. His words had risen in his throat, lost before passing from his mouth, and Irissë had left only after touching his cheek and assuring him that she would be there for him when he was ready to let her listen. If anything, her kindness had only put him further on edge, hating that he had caused she – who had lost as much as he with Arakáno dead not even days upon the shore, and Elenwë dear to her own heart, besides – any further grief to bear.  
  
His temper had only cooled when Itarillë had strayed from Glorfindel's side in order to find him, his daughter's acute empathy meaning that no words were needed as he knelt and she wrapped her small arms about his neck as best she could. But seeing Itarillë blink her blue eyes – _her mother's eyes_ – only brought back the pain of loss, the empty maw in his spirit, gorged by grief and impossible to fill. He could feel the impotent swirl of his anger, pooling in his bones and making his hands fist against the pressure as it built.  
  
And now . . .  
  
Now Maitimo's rooms were empty. The room within was dark with night, illuminated only by a single candle on the bedside stand. Findekáno had fallen asleep on the hard chair to Maitimo's right, his elbow propped up on the arm of the chair and his head lulling forward to slip from his hand. In his exhaustion, he did not notice the awkward bend of his neck, though he would pay for it when he awakened. His brother's braids were crooked, having been done with a too fast hand. His face was very pale; white as it had not been since they had left the Grinding Ice behind them, and his skin had once again darkened healthily upon the rise of the sun. His breathing was not content as it passed from his lungs, coming rasping and quick, lost to dreams as his mind was.  
  
Turukáno looked, but felt pity slow to rise in his chest. Angband had left its mark on more than one, and yet he could not find it within himself to be moved.  
  
And yet, Findekáno did not long hold his attention when he turned to the room's other occupant.  
  
Distantly, he remembered being old enough to understand the concept of his family beyond his father and his mother, beyond his brother. He remembered that he had learned Maitimo's name first; the elf with fire atop his head and fire in his eyes, drawing his child's gaze in awe. Finwë's pride of a grandson, Fëanáro's firstborn and greatest of his might - _Maitimo_ , who always had a gentle word and a kind hand; Maitimo, whom Turukáno had copied down to the way he walked, before he grew old enough to discover his own step. His own voice.  
  
Once, he had loved the other simply because Findekáno had loved him so dearly. It had been so easy then. But then, Valinor had darkened, and the ties binding kith and kin had darkened with it. And now . . .  
  
He looked, but saw not of the Prince of Fire the other had once been. The strong features of his face were weathered and worn; his full lips were thin and chapped, and his eyes sat as bruises on his face, gross smears of purple and brown, standing out against the pallid shade of his too-pale skin. Where once his eyes had been painfully bright to behold, they were now smoke-grey, like the color above a flame once its fire gave out. His hair was a brittle, dry fuzz where the healer had to cut the red waves away, the short tresses so matted with blood and grime that there had been no hope for saving it. Short . . . meaning that somewhere during his imprisonment, the length of his hair had been chopped away for amusement and sport - perhaps more than once, even. A part of him felt ill at the thought.  
  
 _Maitimo_ , the well formed one, Nerdanel had named her son. Once, he had the body of an athlete, tall and lithe and strong. Now his skin hung limply over a skeletal frame. He had no muscle-mass left, and his bones poked through in odd places. Some were shaped at odd angles, telling where they had once been broken and left to improperly heal. The healers had to re-break many of them, Turukáno remembered Irissë saying, in order to let them properly set. The fingers of his remaining hand were all bound in careful little splints, and Turukáno felt his own hand make a fist at the ghost of sensation that crawled over his knuckles.  
  
He did not let himself see the long white scars, criss-crossing every inch of visible skin. Morgoth was clever, and Morgoth was patient - and Maitimo would not easily break. Turukáno could only imagine the lengths the Dark One would to in order to gain the reaction he sought. Morgoth had hated and admired Fëanáro with a dark obsession, and so, with Fëanáro dead, and Morgoth only able to take out his frustration and fascination on his eldest son . . .  
  
Turukáno inhaled, and let his breath out slow. It was no less than a Kinslayer deserved, he let himself think darkly. For every life taken at Alqualondë . . . for every life lost upon the Helcaraxë . . . It was fitting, down to every last mark, and this he had to believe.  
  
It took him a moment to realize that Maitimo was not as unaware as he first thought. For the better, Turukáno thought. He wanted him to _know_ , he wanted him to _feel_ . . .  
  
“Have you come to kill me?” his cousin's voice was a dry sound upon the air, like kindle crackling in a winter's hearth, unable to take flame. Once, Maitimo's skills had lain not in craft or forge, but rather with the spoken word. He could play the strings of the court as his brother strung his harp, and few were those who could debate with him but for his father himself.  
  
Turukáno swallowed. His own throat felt thick when he did so. “Perhaps,” he answered, stalking further into the room. The single candle cast shadows from him like wings.  
  
Too weak to sit up, Maitimo's eyes followed him as he walked. His gaze picked out the dagger he held in hand - a simple, elegantly curved blade, the steel so thin that it held the candle's light and held it as if it was the source of the flame. The hilt was an ornate cast of pearl, depicting Laurelin and her light. The warm surface seemingly glowed with the memory of the Tree-light upon the mountain of the Valar. The blade had belonged to Elenwë, crafted by Fëanor himself for their wedding, just over a century ago.  
  
“I recognize that blade . . . I remember when my father crafted it. The pearl was tricky, it vexed him, and yet nothing else would be worthy of Elenwë; Elenwë - who was cream and evening light in his eyes. He had sworn and vowed to use a different medium a half a dozen time, but in the end . . . he did always enjoy a challenge,” Maitimo's voice was soft, lost with memory. “Findekáno told me . . . he told me about Elenwë. I am sorry for your loss . . . truly I am.”  
  
“Empty words,” Turukáno said coldly, his voice dark from his mouth. He watched as Maitimo's eyes narrowed upon it, testing his syllables for the threat they held. “Your sympathies are meaningless, and hollow to the ear.”  
  
Maitimo blinked, settling back against his pillows as if shrugging. “Take them as you will,” Maitimo said, his voice carefully still. As a child, Turukáno would have heard the voice for the warning it was, embers ever needing only a spark in order to take flame. “It matters not to me.”  
  
Turukáno was silent as he took a seat on the edge of Maitimo's bed. He was close enough to Findekáno that if his brother stirred, his hand would have touched his arm before he would have realized his presence. But Findekáno did not move. His eyes clenched, but they did not open. He muttered in his sleep, taken by his dreams.  
  
Maitimo's gaze too flickered to Findekáno, but not for aid, Turukáno saw. Rather, there was something soft in the look, something tender and small – like an erring child looking for a parent's continued affection, and more than anything, that gaze angered Turukáno. He could feel an answering fire lick at his own bones, devouring in shape.  
  
He leaned down, and traced the line of shadow and light on the other man's neck with the flat of Elenwë's blade. The knife barely touched his skin, the thin steel seemingly delicate to the touch.This close, he could see scar tissue about Maitimo's ears, where Morgoth had cut the fey tips away and then re-attatched them - no doubt letting them heal only so he could do so again. Turukáno felt his stomach crawl with the thought.  
  
Maitimo did not shy away from the blade at his throat. His one remaining hand was easy against the sheets, the broken fingers still and unmoving. Just barely, he leaned into the edge of the knife. Turukáno watched with a morbid fascination as the blood rushed to the surface of his skin, preparing to heal any harm he would think to inflict.  
  
“I asked your brother to kill me on the cliffs,” Maitimo whispered. His eyes flickered down, following the knife as it made its path. “I waited for steel to pierce my heart, but instead he took my hand . . . It was a cruel mercy, even when done in kindness . . . And so, I would ask that you do not hesitant. I release you from guilt or wrongdoing in taking my life, and ask instead that the Valar reward you for your kindness.”  
  
 _This was wrong_ , Turukáno could not help but think. This was all wrong. The angry hole in the pit of his stomach was still turning – it was _growing_ , as if he held nightmare-creature in his gut. If he fed it, if he sated it, he thought that the pain would go away. He wanted for the scar on his soul to scab and heal over. He needed to . . . needed to move on. He needed to for his daughter's sake, for _his own_ sake . . .  
  
He could not continue on like this; angry and burning. He could not . . .  
  
While he was lost to his inner turmoil, Maitimo watched him with calm and peaceful eyes. Abstractly, Turukáno envied him. He envied his acceptance, the ease of his release.  
  
 _Maedhros_ , the Sindarin healers had taken to calling him, rather than translating his name from Quenya as they had done for the rest of the Exiles. _Iron-forged . . ._ _he who was_ _skilled with iron._ Turukáno looked, and could not understand how the other was still strong before him. How was he not instead the slag at the bottom of the forge, useless and ruined?  
  
And yet . . . long had the healers of Endórë dealt with those recovering from Morgoth's torments. Perhaps they saw something that he did not. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was enough that the other lived; that he breathed . . . that he _endured_.  
  
“Please, Turvo,” Maitimo's voice was gentle and coaxing, trying to lull him from his hesitation . . . free him from his guilt. “You would do the world a favor . . . you would rid it of a stain. Do this in your wife's memory, even – rid Finwë's line of the unspeakable horror of a Kinslayer. Call it justice, if you need to, for justice it is.”  
  
And yet . . . a _K_ _inslayer_ he would also be if he took his cousin's life. A _Kinslayer_ , no better than the wreck of an elf before him. Could he . . . could he really bring himself to spill the blood of Finwë and let it run out? He wanted to, he wanted to so very dearly . . . at least, he thought he did. Elenwë's loss was still like a burning in his bones, and he _needed_ . . . He blinked, and found his eyes red and burning. When he closed his eyes, he could see red staining the salty froth of the ocean waves. He knew how crimson looked against the deadly purity of untouched snow. Would that he never have to see a spilled drop of scarlet again, then and only then would he be content.  
  
At the thought, he tightened his hand about the hilt of the knife. And yet, he could not preform that simple flick of the wrist that was needed. If he wanted to, all that he had to do was push down with the flat of the blade, and crush the other's throat. Maitimo was weak, it would be so easy to press down and watch his breath stammer out and then never resume.  
  
 _So easy_ . . . nearly no effort at all, and he could take the life of a Kinslayer.  
  
 _Kinslayer_ . . . a voice in his mind mourned. _This is not you, Tur_ _vo_ _. Not even in your darkest moments is this something you can do_ , and the voice sounded so much like _Elenwë_ that he let the kiss of the blade fall away. He could not . . . no, he would not.  
  
He sucked in a breath. He had not realize how long he had gone without breathing until his lungs ached from the return of air. He let the breath fill him, and felt peace once more return.  
  
“You will not?” he could not tell if Maitimo was surprised or disappointed. Relieved or indifferent.  
  
“She would not have wished it,” was all that Turukáno said in reply. His voice was a low, raw sound as he spoke. Even he could hear the grief that hid behind the syllables. “And so, you will live. Kinslayer, you shall live as, and be remembered as such for all of your days. You will live, and your thrice cursed Oath will take all that you touch. I need not lift a finger for your ruin, already you bring it upon yourself.”  
  
A moment passed, filled only with the flickering of the candle's flame and Findekáno's quiet breathing.  
  
“It is strange,” Maitimo's voice was blank for the sparing of his life, empty even. “For that is exactly what Morgoth said to me . . . After I lost my value as a hostage, and he at long last lost his taste for my torment, Morgoth still did not kill me. He said that it would have been a waste, that someday I would walk free of Angband, and he wanted to see events as they played. It was a game to him, to watch Fëanáro's fire as it burned on and out. He . . . he laughed, knowing that my end would eventually be greater than any cruel torture he could think of.  
  
“Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I . . . I had hoped that you had come to do what Findekáno could not. I had thought that you doing so would have begun to even the scales, that with blood spilled in payment, our crimes would be that much closer to forgiven. I had hoped, that while our Oath slept, there could be peace amongst our peoples.”  
  
Turukáno rolled his shoulders. He would spare the life of Fëanáro's son . . . but that did not mean that he would forget, that he would know sympathy for the consequences of his actions. “You will have to find another way to make amends,” he said without feeling in his voice. “You will have to find a way to make this right - to prove to Findekáno that his sacrifice was not in vain.” At the thought, his hand fisted about the hilt of the knife, not completely forgotten. “I ask only this of you,” he said next, his voice dropping dangerously, “Do not betray my brother's trust, even if it was foolishly given. He deserves better than that, and I will not stand aside if he is hurt again.”  
  
“And if I do not?” Maitimo asked slowly, carefully. For the first his eyes looked wary. Slowly, Turukáno thought he could see the shadow of an old spark, an old flame, struggling to find the air and burn again.  
  
“If not? Then I will kill you,” Turukáno answered easily. “Endanger his heart – harm one more soul with your thrice bedamned Oath, and I promise you that I will finish what Morgoth started. I will not stop at a hand, Nelyafinwë Maitimo – and to that you have my oath and solemn vow, am I understood?”  
  
He felt satisfaction fill him when Maitimo nodded once, slowly. More fitting was this, he thought. He felt a weight leave his shoulders once he returned the dagger to itsplace at his side. The emptiness that had had first swallowed his soul after Elenwë's death was still as a chasm in his spirit, but now he could feel as it started to fill. As it started to heal.  
  
Had he taken the life of the other, that hole would have only grown, he knew. The emptiness would have settled itself deeper. It would have been a gap in his spirit that he never would have been able to fill. But, now . . .  
  
He stood, turning away from Maitimo in order to face his brother. While Findekáno's loyalty still stung, he understood it in the smallest of ways. He would waste no more energy on that anger, not when his family had been so long divided by petty divisions and perceived insults. In that, at least, his brother was right, and Turukáno would no longer hold his fingers in the raw wound of that rift. He would let that too heal . . . if it was even possible for it to ever heal.  
  
His motions mechanical, Turukáno took one of the extra blankets from the foot of the bed, and covered his brother with it. Findekáno stirred in his sleep, but he still did not awaken. Gently, he pressed his hand to his brother's brow, and pushed upon the surface of his consciousness, deepening his sleep to a true rest, a sleep without remembered terrors.  
  
He left his brother to his dreams, and Maitimo to his thoughts, and did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Makalaurë** : Maglor  
>  **Arakáno** : Argon  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril


	24. "bellowing in the bones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin & Frerin & Dís || Prompt: _Full_ , Free-write
> 
> I had to write more _Hobbit_ fic. But, there are enough _Silmarillion_ references here to keep everyone happy. ;)

**Full**  
  
At first, it had felt terribly like an adventure; this quest of theirs.  
  
The great halls of Erebor seemed to hold the sounds of their footsteps as they kept to the shadows in their careful sprint for their grandfather's rooms. The green marble corridors echoed, and they each shushed the other as they tried to hold in their laughter as silence. Well . . . as _Frerin_ tried to hold in his laughter, that was. Thorin was better at keeping his silences when the situation called for it, and Dís had a well practiced raised brow and disaproving scowl that was at odds with her tender years. The youngest of their brood she was, but perhaps she was older than her brother in mind – a fact that she never ceased to remind him of.  
  
“The original works of Telchar, saved before Beleriand was lost,” Frerin was whispering – his whisper, unfortunately, only rang louder than his actual words. “The pearl Nimphelos, greatest treasure of the Broadbeams in Gabilgathol that was . . .”  
  
“I hear that he has blades of Eöllion make,” Dís said, forgetting her unease with their quest long enough to add her own wistfulness to her brother's. “I would give anything to replicate that black steel – and I will someday, just you mark me.”  
  
Frerin crinkled his nose. “You want to see a few pieces of elvish make when the great wonders of our people lay in Thrór's private vault?”  
  
Dís raised a withering brow. “He was dwarf taught, Frerin – and it matters not for the skill of his wares. And, may I remind you too that Nimphelos was a gift from the Elven-king of Doriath, or did you fall asleep for that part of our histories, brother?”  
  
Frerin ran a hand through his mass of wild black hair, annoyed. “I remember the parts of our histories that are relevant to us.” He turned to his first, looking pleadingly at Thorin. “Please, brother, second me on this?”  
  
“I do think that the lady has the right of you. There is nothing I can say to give you aid,” Thorin said, trying not to smile as his siblings went back and forth. For all of her youth, Dís already held herself as a lady of Durin, as strong as the mountain itself and as sparkling as polished mithril. For all of his words to the contrary, Frerin loved her as he loved no other thing, and they delighted in tossing their words to and fro.  
  
“Some help you are,” Frerin swatted his shoulder, but there was fondness too in that gesture. He scowled at his sister. “Don't you have something else you could be doing? Seeing to your embroidery, or playing with Ríli in the smithies . . .”  
  
On cue, Dís' cheeks flushed. She refused to give him the reaction he saught, though, instead tossing her head haughtily as she said, “Ríli is a talented enough goldsmith, I suppose, but not talented enough for a princess of Durin's line.”  
  
“I do not know,” Thorin mused with an exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Balin speaks highly of Rili's progress, and Dís is never one for her _embroidery_ so much as she is made for heat and craft. There may be a match there yet.”  
  
Frerin scowled, realizing that his jest had backfired on him. “A match not fit for _my_ sister,” he grumbled before pushing on. “Now, are we doing this, or not?”  
  
“And that is the real reason you cannot be rid of me,” Dís pointed out wryly. “If you two insist on being troll-brained, then you need someone to come with you to add a modicum of intelligence to your venture.”  
  
“Indeed, the lady wounds me!” Frerin pressed a hand to his chest in a mummery of mortal injury. “No, sister dear, you are here for your Mahal given gift with _locks_.”  
  
For they had come to the great doors that led to their grandfather's personal rooms. Thorin looked up at the golden relief depicting the first awakening of Durin in the earliest days. The artists rendering was intimidating and grand, and Thorin felt small standing before it, as if his ancestors of old looked down on him from Durin's golden eyes and _knew_.  
  
And yet . . . they were no burglars, he thought. They just wished to explore without watchful eyes telling them that they could not touch this or that. There was nothing untoward in what they did, nothing at all.  
  
Dís made quick work of the outer lock, and then they were in. Thrór's chambers were empty, though voices could be heard laughing from the corridor that led to the king's private council chambers – where their grandfather and their father would be in session until the latter part of the afternoon. They had time aplenty if they were quiet enough, and careful. The next lock was trickier – they pushing aside a tapestry where a hidden door was worked into the wall. They had just learned the word of power that would open the door the day before, and then, with Dís' quick work on the more complex keyhole, they were in.  
  
“Ha!” she said in triumph as she pushed, and the door gave way to her.  
  
While the main treasure of Erebor laid deep in the mountain halls, this was Thrór's personal stash and pick of their greatest wears. Priceless artifacts lined the chamber from high to low, everything from gold to diamond to mithril filling great chests to the brimming. Something elemental inside of him alighted at the sight of the precious things. He could all but taste the bite of metal on the back of his tongue. He could feel the goods of the earth beneath his fingertips, even when he had yet to touch.  
  
Far from the urge to don and wear – as Frerin was now doing as he held Azaghâl's crown on his brow, the ornate band slipping down over his brow to rest against the bridge of his nose – he instead felt the urge to _create_ , to make something even grander than the many things that were within this room. He could already imagine the hammer in his hand and the forge fire hot at his back, and he wanted, then -  
  
“Aha!” Dís cried. “I found it.”  
  
With sure fingers, she found an elegant black sword, and pulled it from its sheath with the ease of a daughter of the Longbeards. Thorin looked, and saw that the steel was indeed black, veined as if it was marble instead, crisscrossed by lines of silver and the darkest of greys. It was a strange, wonderful thing, that steel, and Thorin understood his sister's fascination almost immediately.  
  
“A genius,” Dís breathed. “And someday, I will be the first to unlock his secret.”  
  
“I have no doubt,” Frerin said with a grin. “And upon that day, we will wear your wares with pride. And yet, until then, you are adorned far too simply, sister dear.”  
  
He dropped to one knee, offering her a small chest of rings. “I could not decide which one suited you best, and so, I chose them all.”  
  
Dís rolled her eyes, but picked a ring nonetheless. “An excellent choice,” Frerin gave with exaggerated gusto. “Exactly as I would have picked for you.” And, with that, he cast the chest aside, sending the contents within flying.  
  
Thorin hissed out a breath. “You fool,” he said crossly. “Not a thing can be moved from its place. Now help me pick these up.”  
  
“Yes, you are right. I am sorry,” Frerin flushed, dropping to his knees in order to help him pick up the rings he had spilled. Dís bent down to help as well, stopping curiously only when she picked up a ring box – the only one so protected within the chest. She tinkered with the lock on the box before coaxing it open to reveal a twisted band of mithril within, inlaid with a large dark blue stone.  
  
She paused, looking down at the ring oddly. Both Thorin and Frerin looked over, inexplicably _feeling_ as the band was exposed to the air. There was a presence in the band, Thorin understood, a flickering deep and unmovable.  
  
“I have seen this ring before,” Dís muttered. “Grandfather wears it often . . . I wonder why he is not now.”  
  
Curiously, she handed the ring over to Thorin, who had not realized that he had wished to hold it until she offered it to him. There was something about the rather simple band that ensnared him – something that called to him.  
  
“Yes, I have seen it before as well,” he said, though his voice was now far away to his own ears. He knew that his siblings were still speaking, but he could not hear what they said. Not then, not when . . .  
  
The urge to put the ring on his finger was nearly overpowering. It was an overwhelming thought within his mind, one he did not even pause to second guess, and then the metal was sliding across his skin, and -   
  
. . . he wondered how could he have thought himself to see before, when truly, he had been so blind.  
  
There was a power in this ring, a power deep and delving, as strong as the mountain itself. With the ring, Thorin saw with eyes that were not his own; he could see the mountain in its entirety, see its hidden treasures and darkest places, now made as clear as day. Always had he felt the mountain in his bones - her stone eaves had sheltered his birth, had succored his soul, and he knew her as a mother and a guardian both. But this . . . she was now more than a feeling in his mind, a peace in his soul, he was now _one_ with the mountain, and there was nothing that he could not see.  
  
He could see each strain of untapped ore, each precious stone hidden in the rock. He could see down and down and _down_ , down to where the stone turned as molten as fire, and the underground rivers turned instead to steam, blistering and boiling. The earth had a heartbeat, and his own pulse slowed to match. He could taste the rock in his mouth; he could feel the stone as his flesh, and a yearning, an insatiable need seemed to light itself in his stomach as he saw the world around him in shades of silver and gold.  
  
Distantly, he heard his brother calling to him. He could feel Dís' warm hand as it wrapped about his own. They were worried, Thorin thought - but how could they be, when there was such wonder underneath their feet?  
  
He knelt then, feeling his breath coming too quick and strained in his chest. He needed to touch the marble stone beneath him. He needed the cool slide of precious metal against his skin, and he -  
  
“Thorin?” he heard his name spoken, breaking through the golden fog.  
  
“The ring,” he tried to speak. “Don't you see . . .”  
  
How could they not see?  
  
And he delved deeper with that second sight. He looked and searched until he came upon something long sleeping. Something that _was_ the heartbeat of the earth, something that was the strains of ore and the precious gem.  
  
_“Little Longbeard, what do you seek?”_ came a voice, as terrible as night and as beautiful as the molten earth far below them. It took Thorin a moment to realize that the voice came from the ring, the voice was _a part_ of the ring. _“Little Longbeard, what do you see?”_  
  
For a moment, the haze of gold was overwhelming, and yet -  
  
He just barely recognized the ring being forced from him, and the breaking of the connection was like sundering an artery. For a moment, he could not . . .  
  
The gold faded then, and left only blackness behind.   
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
He awakened with a pounding in his head, as if his skull was a fold of metal being beaten into shape upon the anvil. He could not decide if that was worse than the rolling in his stomach, as bad as that one time he and Frerin had gotten into their father's stores of ale, and learned their lesson well. And yet, his twisting stomach and pounding head were nothing as to the feeling of loss he felt in his bones. A feeling that wished . . .  
  
When he blinked, he was noticed. He felt a commotion in the room, footsteps coming closer and a broad, weathered hand as it was lain against his brow. “Aye, laddie, try to wake up if you can,” a warm, familiar voice greeted him. “You gave us quite the scare.”  
  
He blinked, and slowly Balin's face came into focus. His vision was no longer edged in gold, and yet, he could not tell if it was relief he felt at the realization, or disappointment.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see that Thráin was standing at his bedside in his court finery. His face was very much like Thorin's own, even if his nose was the slightest bit longer. His was a grave and chiseled countenance, framed by a mass of curling black hair, shot through with two long locks of white at the temples. His normally unmovable features were twisted in worry, and yet, Thorin had not realized just how much he had needed his father's comfort until it was given.  
  
He tried to sit up straighter beneath the hand on his shoulder, but was firmly pushed back down.  
  
“No,” Thráin said. “You rest. You have been out cold for the better part of the day. It is nearly the morrow.”  
  
That long? Thorin tried to remember, but his thoughts were covered in fog. He remembered only the ring and then blackness . . . but he looked past Balin to see Frerin and Dís both waiting at his side, anxious expressions on both of their faces. Dís' eyes were red from her tears.  
  
“What was that?” Thorin asked. His voice was a dry, hoarse sound. He did not recognize it at the first.  
  
“That,” a voice came from behind his father – his grandfather and King – and Thorin did sit up straighter when he realized that Thrór's eyes were upon him, “Was the First of the Seven. A gift, from Celebrimbor Fëanorian of Eregion to Durin, the third of his name, King of Moria, in the noontime of the Second Age.”  
  
“An artifact,” Thráin said carefully as he took a seat on the edge of his son's bed. “A heirloom of great power.”  
  
Thrór's nose twitched, the white whiskers of his beard moving as he did so. He turned narrowed eyes to his son. “A great power,” he stressed primly. “That Ring is the reason for the wealth of Erebor; the wealth of each of the seven hordes, at that. It would not have been left in such easy reach, had others not been afraid of its power, and advised against its constant wearing.”  
  
Thorin looked, and saw the look that passed between father and son. He felt foreboding fill his heart, for he knew those names . . . Celebrimbor the Elven-smith, the Rings of Power . . .  
  
“Yes, those Rings,” Thráin said gently. “They are one and the same.”  
  
He thought of night-tales of wraiths in the dark; of their screams and tattered black cloaks hiding where they had traded away both their flesh and their souls. At the thought, he felt a wild bite of fear that he quickly pushed away, not wanting to seem craven before his sire and grandside. But he . . .  
  
“And yet,” Thrór said proudly, “Only lesser races were enslaved to the call of the Rings. We of Mahal were stronger than the Dark One first believed, and we have resisted his call. Instead we use his would-be weapons to our own advantage, throwing his shadow back on him a hundred fold as our stores fill with more and more gold with each passing season.”  
  
And yet, he could not help but think . . .  
  
“There was a voice,” Thorin whispered. “A voice that whispered . . . I did not like the sound of it.” He felt small for admitting so, and yet, he could not . . . That voice had been evil in its entirety, and he did not like the thought of such a voice seeing the mountain he so loved, of such a voice looking upon the rock that had nurtured him. It seemed wrong; it did not feel right.  
  
“You are wise,” Thráin said, and the hand upon his shoulder tightened. “Not all have viewed that presence as such.”  
  
Thrór did huff at that, Thorin saw. He tensed, for his grandfather's moods had become more and more mercurial of late, and he feared . . . He felt as Dís and Frerin shuffled on the other side of his bed, both as uncomfortable as he.  
  
But Thrór did nothing more than look archly upon them all, and then turn away. Thráin watched his father leave with suddenly tired eyes, Thorin thought, and he felt guilt fill him. It was supposed to be a fun, harmless excursion that day, and now . . .  
  
“I just did not like the feel of it,” Thorin tried to explain, wanting to fix what was before him, but unsure just precisely how.  
  
“It will be many years until the Ring comes to you,” Thráin said, the hand on his shoulder leaving then. In a child's moment, Thorin wished for it back. “It shall be mine first before that, and far from your concern.”  
  
A lance of unease bit through him, and he reached out to touch his father's sleeve. But he stopped before touching him, drawing his hand back away and forcing his features to composure. “I . . .” he reined his words of concern away, saying simply, “I do not think you would need the Ring to rule. You would do well enough on your own council.”  
  
Thráin laughed warmly at that. “I thank you for your faith, my son,” he said. “But the Ring comes with the crown, and both are burdens to bear – do not worry for me, for bear both I shall, just as you somedy will - and I know that you will do your line proud.”  
  
His father spoke with such a certainty, but in Thorin's mind, a memory of that black voice smiled. The voice _laughed_ , and he shivered.  
  
“And speaking of pride,” Thráin said, turning to all of his children. “My pride as a father took a blow today when the page came in to say what mischief my own brood were up to. There are,” he said, looking at Dís specifically, “locks upon doors for a reason, for some things are not meant to be opened.” And that was said to Frerin, who looked suitably abashed as he glanced down at his feet, the skin above his sparsely growing beard flushing.  
  
Muffled apologies greeted his words, and Thráin sighed. “To make sure you remember this in the future, I do believe that there is a forge-hearth due to be scrubbed, would you not say, Balin?”  
  
“I can think of one in particular,” the older dwarf pretended to consider it, rubbing his chin through the graying pelt of his beard, “that would benefit three strong hands.”  
  
“But -” Frerin got no further before Thráin held up a hand.  
  
“Do not make me think of two,” Thráin said. “Or there are bellows to be worked, if you think that scrubbing the hearths is not enough?”  
  
“Yes, father,” was all that greeted him, and Thráin inclined his head, pleased.  
  
“Then let that be a lesson to you – all of you,” he turned a severe look on them all as he rose to his feet, but his eyes softened when he bent down to lay a gentle hand at his son's brow, wiping away the wild strands of his hair. “But rest for the eve, the hearths will wait until the morn.”  
  
He took his leave, no doubt going off after his father, and Thorin watched him leave until the doors closed behind him.  
  
He settled back into his pillows with a sigh, his head still pounding mightily behind his closed eyes.  
  
“And it is time to rest for all of you,” Balin said gently. “It has been quite the day.”  
  
Frerin turned to leave, but Dís lingered, looking at their elder with hesitant eyes. “Would it be alright if we were to stay? We promise not to disturb him much.”  
  
Frerin too turned questioning eyes upon him, and Balin sighed. “As long as he isn't disturbed much, I do not see why not. But leave him to his rest, else I will see that your father remembers those bellows upon the morrow, do I make myself clear?”  
  
He had, he was rapidly assured and as Balin turned to leave, Thorin felt as both of his siblings joined him on the bed. They had not passed a night like this since they were very young, scaring each other with stories of dragons in the dark. And yet, he was strangely thankful for their presence in that moment. He . . . he did not wish to be alone. He did not yet want to close his eyes, knowing the visions that would wait for him there.  
  
Silence passed between them, long and lingering. Finally, Dís gathered her courage to ask, “What did you see in that other world, Thorin? We called for you, but you could not hear us. You could not hear us, but you _looked_ _past us_ in such a wonder . . .”  
  
She had folded her small hand into his own, and he squeezed her fingers in assurance, not completely sure of who he was offering comfort as he did so.  
  
“What did you see?” she asked again, her voice small.  
  
“Everything,” Thorin whispered into the shadow; remembering being full with the mountain and the deep places underneath the earth. Full and insatiable and greedy he had felt, and now . . .  
  
“ . . . I saw everything,” he muttered again, and then closed his eyes.  
 


	25. "shadows you wish to own"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aredhel/Eöl || Prompt: _Share_ , Free-write
> 
> This follows up _"in distant dark places"_ in Chapter 22.

**Share**

She is not certain that she belongs here.  
  
Sometimes, she thought that the forest knew this; that it pressed her down against the earth like a boot upon an insect, grinding her into the wet moss and mud until there was nothing white left about her. She felt as if gravity was tugging on the soles of her boots, pulling her down, down,  _down,_ until she too was of the soil and the deep roots. Worse than this feeling, which she knows is her own mind, her own dread, is when the forest instead tried to embrace her, holding her close in arms that smothered.  
  
She dwells in shadow, but she is not one of them, Aredhel tells herself; even when, as the days go by, she forgets the feeling of sunlight upon her skin, of Treelight in her eyes. It is a memory further and further past her reach every time she tried to grasp for it.  
  
She dreamed often in this place; twisting dreams of twisted things. Instead of her familiar culprits (cages and wings; virgin snow stained so very _red_ ), these dreams are new, odd things (branches moving and holding and _smothering_ , falling from such great heights). She did not like to sleep most nights for them, and yet, staying awake presented a new quandary of its own.  
  
. . . she, she was not quite sure of how to share a bed. She never had before – Argon always knew to seek out his parents or his brothers when he had a black dream, and she had never trusted a man close enough to share her most intimate space when she was at her most vulnerable in sleep. The closest she had come was falling asleep with Tylekormo in the green grasses of Valinor, both drowsy on the light and the fresh air of the hunt. She remembered huddling close for warmth and life on the Helcaraxë, but both memories seemed far away from her now. She did not let herself remember them often, lest _he_ too see their shadow within her mind. Some things were still her own, only her own, and she would not share them.  
  
Now, she moved carefully, biting her lip as she tried to arrange her arms more comfortably beneath her pillow. There was a crick in her neck from her refusing to settle it in an easier position, but she did not wish to turn over and alert him of her restlessness. She carefully stayed to the edge of the bed, her back to him and her every bone stiff and unyielding. She held her breath until she was sure that her heart would cut its way from her chest for the tight stretch of her skin.  
  
Slowly, she exhaled, sure that if she could just move her arm _like so_ , then she would be marginally more comfortable. If she could . . .  
  
“You have not stopped moving,” came her husband's drowsy voice from the other side of the bed. He rested on his side as well, facing away from her – out of his own wishes, or giving in to her more childish ones, she was not quite sure.  
  
Aredhel set her mouth in a line, unwilling to apologize for disturbing him, but unsure of what else to say. Instead, she opted for silence.  
  
She heard a breath as Eöl sighed, the sound low and rumbling from his chest. At her mind she felt his frustration and amusement both, a normal state of feeling for him where she was concerned.  
  
“Do try to relax,” he said. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he turned towards her. “You act as if the night will swallow you whole if you but close your eyes.”  
  
 _Would it not?_ she wanted to ask, but did not. Her heart was too fast then, skipping in her chest with a feverish beat.  
  
Still, she was silent.  
  
“Are you scared of the dark?” he asked next, a line of challenge in his voice, and at that she blinked. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, her glance withering. And yet . . .  
  
“I am simply unused to sharing a bed,” she whispered. “I cannot get comfortable.”  
  
A moment passed. She felt a flicker of thought, a breath of hesitation, but then she felt a callused hand as it touched her shoulder, gently turning her towards him. He drew her close, wrapping his arms around her, and at first she felt her blood spark with an ever more familiar fire before Eöl shushed her, tracing a hand down her arm in a motion that was more tenderness than urgency.  
  
“As tempting as you are, wife, I do have to be gone early in the morn,” his voice was soft, spoken into her ear now. “I just wish for you to be comfortable.”  
  
And . . . she was, Aredhel thought. She tucked her head against his chest, and folded her arms so that she rested her hands against the warm skin of his abdomen, finding the now familiar shape of the muscles there. His arms settled around her shoulders, holding her to him as their legs entwined, and she felt as if she were a piece of a whole settling into place. For everything else that felt wrong here . . . for every shadow waiting as with teeth, she never felt wrong when he held her as such. A part of her hated that, and yet . . .  
  
“I am not used to having a bedmate, either,” Eöl whispered against her hair, using the truth as a balm. “Perhaps we can learn together?”  
  
She still did not answer, but she did exhale in reply, her body loosing some of its stiffness as she felt sleep tug at her consciousness. The forest still loomed beyond her senses, but no longer did it seem to be a maw, opened wide. The darkness waited – watching, she thought - but it did not matter.  
  
For that moment, she closed her eyes, and belonged. 


	26. "made for whispers"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn/Galadriel || Prompt: _Far, Beyond, Heal_ , Free-write

**Far**  
  
There were times when the knowledge of just how far away from home she was caught her by surprise; like the rains in the summer, when they fell from a cloudless sky.  
  
It was different here in Endórë. In Aman, one only carried a sword or bow only when wishing to hunt or cross one's companion in friendly competition. In Endórë, they were required to go armed wherever they went, ever keeping alert for the dangers that the Dark Lord set upon the land like maggots upon a festering corpse.  
  
Galadriel had known, in theory, of the shadow that laid upon the hither lands, but to know it firsthand now . . . The shadow was so much more than her grandfather's tales; more than the stories her brothers would tell to scare her as a child. She now knew Endórë as a land of loss and hardship, a land of strife and harsh stones. She had not understood this when she so naively set out to find her own way, her own realm to rule. And yet, now . . .  
  
In Aman, the only elf to know a sundering within his family had been Fëanor himself, and that one death had sparked a dark, prolixing spiral into madness. Here, there was not a family left untouched by death. Even her companion that day had lost much – both of his parents had been killed in the same attack, over a century before she had arrived in Middle-earth. His grandmother had been taken by Morgoth and returned as Orc-kind, and his grandfather Elmo had ended her life before fading away to join her sundered spirit in huanting the land. Elmo had been of the Unbegotten, a brother of Elu Thingol himself, and to know that not even the strongest of their kind was untouched by tragedy . . .   
  
“You can still see them take shape in the mists,” Celeborn concluded his tale as they picked their way through the hunting paths. “He waits for her, resisting Námo's call to haunt the places they once knew together and loved. For it is unknown to us what happens to the fëar of Orcs when they depart - for they were once Elves, were they not? They have merely been twisted; tortured and betrayed. Námo may have mercy in Eru's name, and yet, we are not to know until the breaking of the world.”  
  
Galadriel watched as his pale blue eyes darkened, as his jaw set in a tense line. The Valar had forgotten about these lands, she knew the thought that whispered through his mind. They left Middle-earth to Melkor as his playground, and could not be moved from their high places in the West to aid those left behind . . . or, so it seemed.  
  
Once was, she would have thought to ignore the call of Námo sacrilegious. Blasphemy. A thing of evil, even. Now . . .  
  
Now she was not so sure. And yet, Endórë had done that to many a thing she had once thought to know as fact.  
  
Constantly defeating what she had once known with new understanding was Celeborn himself. When Angrod had first met their kinsmen in Doriath, he had called them uncultured and uncouth, these Dark Elves who'd never known the light of the Trees, who had never learned at the feet of the Valar. They dressed in shades of grey, having only known color with the rising of the sun itself. Their only adornments were of leaves and branches and their hair of silver, with their knowing little of craft and even less of lore.  
  
How haughty Angrod's first opinion had been . . . She still felt her cheeks flush when she remembered the arrogant way she had first greeted this people, thinking herself above even their fair Lúthien and their Queen who was also something divine, something greater than them all.  
  
And yet now she stood, humbled and renamed, learning the forest at Celeborn's side – learning of the beauty hidden beneath the shadow of Middle-earth. She felt at ease in her own skin beneath the forest's shade. Here, she felt as if she learned her true self anew, far from her quarreling kin and memories of blood on the waves.  
  
But she would not . . . she _could not_ think of such. Not now. Those were Artanis' memories, and she was Artanis no longer.  
  
Her thoughts distracted her, and she stumbled with her next step, cutting herself on the rock as she caught her balance.  
  
“ _Ai_ ,” she hissed in annoyance when she saw a thin line of red bloom on her palm. It stung more at her pride than her flesh, and yet it would throw her aim with the bow if they were successful on their hunt. She walked over to where a wide stream cut through the underbrush of the forest, intent on flushing the cut out until the blood clotted and started to heal.  
  
She held her palm beneath the bubbling waters, still icy from the winter melt, and she felt her heart turn sick in her chest as memories came back unbidden. Like a flash of stormlight upon the land, she remembered Alqualondë and its sea of pearl touched by ribbons of red . . . she remembered washing her hands in the bubbling surf and feeling the salt of the sea burn at her scraped skin . . . she remembered the silver of her blade in the water as she threw it to pierce the waves, and now -  
  
“Here,” Celeborn knelt down beside her. He was as quiet as a stag with his approach, and she did not know he was beside her until he reached into the water to heal her hand for her. She watched in disturbed fascination as the small cloud of copper above her palm touched the pale white of his skin as well. It stained him with _her_ stain, and she -  
  
She breathed in through her nose, jerking her hand away from him. “Do not touch me,” she exhaled in fear, like a wounded animal, lashing out. Almost immediately she regretted her words, for how could she explain her sudden unease? It was not he, but rather _she_ who was tainted in that moment. It was her curse; her doom and bloodstained hands . . . and yet, it was a curse he still knew nothing about. It was a doom which he was ignorant to.  
  
Her spilling the blood of her father's kin, even in the defense of her mother's . . . she did not have the words in her heart to tell him. She did not think that she could stand the scorn that would settle on his brow in reply. The _disgust_.  
  
She made a fist of her hand, ignoring the way her fingers pulled on the skin of her wound. The pain of it grounded her. It called her back to herself.  
  
“My apologies, my lady. I will not touch you again,” Celeborn said stonily. His face was carefully blank of feeling, as it had not been since their earliest days together, when it seemed that they were constantly offending the other in their learning their opposite ways and views. She had come to enjoy their dance since then; she enjoyed crossing blows with the unyielding steel of his mind, but now . . .  
  
She did not have the words to put him at ease, and so she let the silence between them lay like a wound. In the mists of the trees, she thought she heard the spirit of Elmo calling mournfully on the air, looking for something he would never find. There was a touch of the wistful to his voice, a yearning greater than even the insistent call of the Valar, summoning his lost soul home . . .  
  
For a moment, Galadriel listened, and knew exactly how he felt.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
**Beyond**  
  
It came as a shock; a sudden startle disturbing the quiet stillness of a forest pool.  
  
Even knowing that it was coming – seeing the limb before it broke, knowing that the branch was weak, needing only the right storm to set it free – did not soften the blow of its doing so. And now she stood with her head held haughty and high; her hair garlanded by white flowers instead of precious stones, her gown grey and elegant in its simplicity instead of gaudy and adorned, listening as words were flung at she and her brothers both.  
  
_Kinslayers_ _and_ _cowards, refusing to aid their mother's_ _people_ _. Traitors and liars,_ _seeking out his hospitality when they knew well of the black deeds that had spurned on the flight of the Exiles._  
  
Finrod spoke calmly in reply to Thingol's every blow, a note of frustration biting into his voice like a stain of minerals and rust upon a fresh stream. Angrod was not so calm as his first, indignation and anger simmering beneath his harshly spoken words as he gave them in reply to the Elven-king upon his throne. At his side, Aegnor took up his sibling's righteous fire as his own, they finishing the other's words more often than not. Orodreth only was silent, listening as carefully as she did, finding her eye after every particularly cruel accusation. But she squared her jaw in reply to his concern. She did not need her brother to shield her. Not from this. _Especially_ from this.  
  
She looked, but saw not a kind eye in the court. Even Lúthien's gentle brow was creased with hurt and betrayal. Melian was impassive at her husband's side, her ageless eyes finding hers throughout the hostile arguments. _I had asked you, my child_ , the Maia Queen said in sorrow against her mind, but Galadriel ignored her mothering touch. _Why did you not merely say so, Nerwen_ _Eärwen_ _iel?_  
  
Galadriel looked to the right of Thingol's throne, but Celeborn was very careful to keep his eyes on his king and none other. She looked, and saw the tight line of his jaw, the stiff set of his shoulders. All were familiar marks of his anger, and under any other circumstance they were those she would seek to fan on and ignite with the easy teasing of their camaraderie. And yet, now . . .  
  
“Be gone from me,” Thingol finally said when their words turned in angry circles, each side only wounding the other all the more for speaking so. “Not forever, for you are still kindred of mine and you shall again be welcome in these halls. Yet, for now, my heart is heavy in my chest, and I cannot look upon you for my anger.”  
  
She was the last to turn, trying to seek out Celeborn's gaze before she left, but he would not look at her. He did not seek her out until hours later, when she was gathering her things, preparing to depart with her brothers until Thingol's wrath cooled.  
  
“Why did you not tell me?” was the first thing he asked. The silence stretched between them, she not even bothering to deign such a question with an answer. She did not look up from her task, moving about her rooms with terse, mechanical motions as she gathered what she would need to take with her.  
  
“Would you have not said so until we were married, and I saw the memories unbidden in your mind?” Celeborn continued, unfazed by her silence. “Would you have deemed it then time to so graciously allow me the truth of your flight from Aman?”  
  
“I refused to speak because I _could not_ speak,” Galadriel said, her words low and dangerous. “And I am tired of seeking out forgiveness when I have done nothing deserving of requiring such forgiveness. I am tired of being asked to choose between my father's kin and my mother's kin, and I shall do so no more.”  
  
She looked and saw where he winced, as if she had struck him physically with her words. “I thought that you trusted me,” Celeborn said, his words plain. For the first, she heard the hurt that lingered beneath his anger, beneath his righteous pride. “Is there anything else that I ought to know?” his voice turned scathing then, covering the wound of his hurt. “Is there anything else that would make me question that the woman before me is she whom I thought myself to know and love? Or is Finwë's line too damaged for even that, for truths and their telling?”  
  
It was her turn to flinch, the blow of his words finding their place between her ribs and sinking in deep. “There is no further truth to share, nothing else to tell.” She felt her words becoming clipped, her voice closed off. She would not let any speak down to her. Not even him. “You now know all.”  
  
Still he did not believe her, she saw . . . still he did not trust. He stood with his arms crossed and his blue eyes as pale flames with his judgment. She felt anger fill her, thinking only _it shall not be so_. She would hang her head before no other, not even him.  
  
When her words failed her, she opened her mind to him, instead letting him see what had happened at the Swan Havens. Yes, she held a sword, she pressed the memory against him until it _smothered_ his mind's eye. While Fingolfin's children jumped to aid the sons of Fëanor, not understanding what happened until it was too late, she had seen, and she had _kn_ _o_ _w_ _n._ And so, she had stood before Eärwen's kin with a sword. Fëanor's sons wore mail and armor, the forged steel in their hands and the flames of their Oath a terrible force to face. The people of Alqualondë were of the sea - fishermen and shipbuilders with hooked knives and fishing spears, peaceful folk with sea shells woven into their hair and sea salt staining their clothes. The massacre to follow was inevitable.  
  
But Galadriel knew her craft well, and she had struck the Fëanorian supporters without mercy, while her own brothers stood numbly to the side, unsure of which side to aid. It was as if they all had been drunk on strong wine that terrible day. It had been like drowning, unable to tell up from down, until finally she had felt her stomach rebel at the battle's end, and she had tasted bile in the back of her mouth as the ships _burned_.  
  
She let him see how easily elven skin rent, how easily elven blood spilled. He would not know, she thought, no matter how many Orcs had fallen to his blade throughout the centuries. She let him see next, how the Valar looked down on the events of that day and judged. She let him hear how Námo's voice rang, as terrible as any unlight when he proclaimed their doom. She let him see how her pride had trembled in rage, for the Valar had called the Elves to Aman as friends, and she'd be _damned_ before she considered herself _cursed_ for turning back to the land of her people's birth. A rebel they called her for returning to the land across the sea? A heretic and ungrateful blasphemer against their power and might? It was not to be borne. Even now she trembled with remembered rage at the thought.  
  
She next let him see the horrors of the Ice. She let him feel the days of ever-cold, let him see the countless losses the Helcaraxë clawed from the flesh and souls of her people.  
  
She let him _see_ , and then she opened her eyes to see in return . . .

. . . pity . . . pity and disgust.  
  
There was disgust in his eyes for her memories. _Disgust,_ as if she were no better than Fëanor's sons for her deeds. Even though she would later understand that such feeling was not for her, but rather for the foes she had faced, the judgment she endured, she was too angry to realize that then. Then, she only knew that her father's kin was again united; the sons of Fëanor breaking bread with the sons of Fingolfin in friendship and fealty. They looked on her as a traitor against Finwë himself and against the Noldor as a whole. And now the Sindar saw her the same as the cursed people who spilled the blood of Thingol's kin across the sea.  
  
She was trapped, she realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She alone had stood tall in those days, and yet she would receive thanks from neither side. She was . . .  
  
Cursed.  
  
_Cursed_ , the Valar had said. _C_ _ursed_ , with every deed of their hands falling to naught but ash. She had not believed it to be so, not even with the Helcaraxë singing of their doom with every step. But now, the look in Celeborn's eyes was enough to convince her of the truth of Námo's every syllable. She understood the full extent of her doom.  
  
“I will obey your King's wishes, and join my brother in Nargothrond,” she said stiffly into the stillness that followed the exchange of memories. Celeborn had yet to say a word. “If I am not needed in the building there, I will rejoin my father's kin in Hithlum. If ever you can look beyond my _bloodstained hands_ , you may then seek me out there,” her voice fairly dripped with her derision. And yet, better did she show spite instead of letting him see how very wounded she was in that moment . . . how utterly destroyed. “Seek me out, if you will, for I will never turn you away.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
**Heal**  
  
He knew that the halls of Hithlum were abuzz with chatter at his presence.  
  
He could hear it go back and forth, like a stream over the bedrock below, the current pulling the waters this way and that. _Thingol's kinsman._ _He would be_ _'royalty' amongst the_ _Dark Elves_ , the newcomers said with upturned lips and raised brows. _My prince_ , many of the Sindar who lived beneath the shadow of the Noldor bowed before him and raised their eyes in respect, recognizing Thingol's likeness in the silver of his hair and the shape of his jaw.  
  
_Far from home, are we_ _not, Dark Elf_ _? I did not know there were any of Thingol's kin brave enough to cross the Gi_ _r_ _dle._ Came a voice as rich as molten gold from an elf with eyes like fire and hair as black as night. Later, he would know the other as Fëanor's fifth son, and he know gratitude that he did not then know the relation, else would he have caused violence while waiting upon a host's graciousness. The elf spoke in high, rolling Quenya; a version of his tongue used only for court ritual and epic poetry - as if assuming that he would not understand the words spoken against him. _You do not wear furs and skins like the rest of your kind?_ _I see no stone blade at your belt._ _That is well, at_ _the very_ _least -_ _y_ _ou understand your place. You put on airs for_ _your betters_ _._ _It is as it should be,_  
  
_Your kind . . ._ _airs?_ Celeborn thought, a boiling in his veins. Nandor and Sindar and Silvan and Avari - there were distinctions between each, and the grey of his robes should have been telling to any who knew where to look. The other spoke in ignorance and petty superiority, this elf who had spilled the blood of kin and claimed dominion over lands which were already tended and owned. But Celeborn was a son of princes, and kinsman of a King whom even a Maia had thought worthy of binding her life and spirit to. He would not be cowed by the other.  
  
It did not matter that he had never seen the light of the Trees', he thought. He had no need to, not when he had instead seen . . .  
  
Curufin, who was fire and flame, was soon drawn away by another – a tall elf with an air of burden and weariness about him, who would have been handsome beyond compare if it was not for the pale and clipped shape of his features . . . the silver scars and the missing hand. Celeborn looked, and knew this one without naming, but instead of the anger he expected to feel, he instead felt only stillness as the Kinslayer's eyes met his and he bowed his head in a gesture of acknowledgment, if not respect. Celeborn knew his own look; he knew he was silver and sleek like the edge of a blade. How many of Olwë's kinsman would have been equal in his likeness, he wondered? How many with his face did these seven put to a blade?  
  
But the eldest, touched by red, looked as if a shadow overcame him, and the bow of his head turned deeper. Celeborn did not return the gesture, and finally, Maedhros drew his brother away.  
  
He was not immediately able to go to Galadriel, as he would have wished to. Instead he adhered to the etiquette of the court, and first bore an audience with Fingolfin and his sons, delivering his words of continued friendship and goodwill from Elu Thingol, speaking again of the King's ban on Quenya as the only retribution he would take upon those who had spilled the blood of his brother's people. There was a shadow on Fingolfin's brow, and Celeborn could tell where he balked beneath being administered to by one of the _Moriquendi_ , but the proud King of the Noldor inclined his head at the end. He vowed to make it so.  
  
It would be a long road to peace and healing between their two peoples, Celeborn thought. A long road indeed, and yet . . .  
  
His thoughts were diverted when they emptied from the council chamber and he saw that _she_ waited just beyond.  
  
Galadriel stood tall and proud, ignoring the looks of her cousins as they passed, instead waiting for him. Mindful of the others about, and unsure if she had yet told her family of her Sindarin lover – unsure if he could even claim to be so still – he stood a respectful distance from her. He bowed in the way of her people, and pressed a dry kiss to the back of her offered hand. Once, he would have thought of the blood her hands had seen, now he merely felt the way they trembled. He found his grip tightening against his will, offering her strength. She, who was ever so unmovable . . .  
  
He felt eyes upon them like insects itching up and down his spine. Regretfully, he let her hand fall away.  
  
Carefully, he took in the differences since last he saw her, pausing on the elaborate pile of ornate braids and jeweled pins that held back the radiance of her hair, the heavy embroidery of her dress and the rich shade of blue it was - a shade brighter than would be found on a peacock's tail, a color not found naturally in their shadowed lands.  
  
It did not look right on her, Celeborn thought. He had grown used to her hair flowing unchecked and unbound; her gowns only simple folds of grey and silver and white. She needed no more adornment than that, and yet . . .  
  
“Come, if you would,” she said, tilting her head. Her eyes flickered in the barest of annoyance to those who still watched them as they slipped from the ornate halls into the gardens beyond. Celeborn did not realize just how claustrophobic he had felt until he felt the fresh air on his face. He breathed, feeling his lungs fill with the twilight and spice of the herbs that grew right beyond the doors. There were no trees here, not on the mist-lands by the great lake, and he irrationally wished for the comforting shade of interlocking boughs overhead.  
  
The gardens were too . . . exact, he thought as they walked the winding paths to a secluded place, made so by an arbor of carefully trimmed rose bushes. There was none of the wild about the ornate beds, and yet, it was better than the showy keep they had left - with Fingolfin's seat of power being more gaudy than a dwarf's horde to his eyes.  
  
When he looked, Galadriel was standing very still, as if she was one of the statues of stone, standing as silent specters amidst the garden. She smoothed her hands over her dress at his appraisal. He watched her take in a breath.  
  
“Artanis,” he said, wanting to say – _needing_ to say so many things. “I judged you rashly when last we spoke. I looked on you in anger, and I spoke in the haste of rage. I have come to apologize for the harshness of my words, and say, that if you were ever to share . . . if you ever _wanted_ another to help you bear your burdens, I would be glad to be that shoulder for you.”  
  
Still she was as stone before him, and yet . . .  
  
After a long moment, terse and waiting, she took his hands in his own. Her fingers trembled, and a part of him was humbled to realize that he could reduce this strong, amazing woman to a sapling in the wind. Humbled, and awed.  
  
“Galadriel,” she whispered, meeting his eyes at long last. As always, he could see light reflected and held deep in her gaze. This time he thought he could see tears, burning and hot before she blinked them away. “ _Galadriel_ you have named me, and Galadriel I have been named.”  
  
“I did not think,” he said carefully, “that you would wish to be called as such. Not here. Not . . .”  
  
Not after all that had been said between them.  
  
“Artanis . . .” she said slowly, “ . . . Artanis as she was died a long time ago; slain by the blades of kin and buried by the horrors of the Ice. I did not know that she was laid to rest until I found _Galadriel_ beneath the shelter of the trees. I . . .” her voice faltered, suddenly uncertain.  
  
Yet, he understood. _Artanis_ was the name of a child, headstrong and stubborn, who fought the impossible fights and tilted her chin to the doom of the gods. _Galadriel_ was a woman, stronger after tragedy, and graceful in the wisdom those bloodstained days had gained.  
  
And . . . perhaps, the smallest part of Galadriel was also his . . . just as he was becoming hers in the whole of his soul, down to the roots of his bones.  
  
When he opened his arms to her, she allowed his embrace after only a second of hesitation. The first time he had held her as such, he had felt as if he were trying to hold the newly dawned sun itself, but now . . . Now he felt as if he held his equal, his match. And, if she would let him . . .  
  
“When you are ready,” he said slowly, softly. “I would hear all that you would wish to say.”  
  
He felt as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He felt her pain as his own; but it was a pain of healing, of bones being set and skin being stitched together again.  
  
“It is a long tale,” she said as she drew away from him, just enough to sit at the fountain's edge, he following at her side. “And yet, it is one that should be told. It started, as this . . .”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fëar** : Plural of fëa. Meaning soul.  
>  **Endórë** : Middle-earth  
>  **Nerwen Eärweniel** : 'Nerwen' is Galadriel's mother-name. 'Eärweniel' means daughter of Eärwen.
> 
> It always struck me as peculiar that Galadriel was not more forthcoming about the First Kinslaying, especially when Melian asked her point-blank about it. Finrod started building Nargothrond in the year FA 52, and Thingol banned Quenya in the year FA 67. So, she kept that secret for _at least_ fifteen years - and that has always nagged at me. So, I had to write about it. ;)


	27. "from step to step"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Elros || Prompt: _Steady_. Free-write

**Steady**  
  
If anything could be said about Eärendil's son, it was that he was surprisingly resilient for a child.  
  
Elros had taken up the peculiar habit of following him whenever he went. He sat with him while he did his missives; tending to the needs of his men on paper and writing to the small conclave of their supporters left at Amon Ereb. The boy held a quill the same way as he did, fitting his left hand awkwardly around the grip and looking to catch his eye all the while. Maedhros did not comment, did not even look his way when the child could see him, and yet, Elros was undeterred.   
  
(If he remembered Fingon at that same age; all bright eyes and quiet, solemn concentration as he tried to shape his letters _just so_ , then that was a memory he put away like an offering of a penitent at a shrine. He had not let himself think about his cousin in many years. He did not, _could not_ , think about his friend, long gone, and so, he did not.)  
  
The boy was there everytime he turned. Elros watched at the edge of the practice yards, mimicking his honed move with the sword with a stick of his own - his motions one-handed more often than not to more perfectly mirror him. Elros was there with the horses, feeding and tending a small bay colt he had claimed for himself – the same coloring as Maedhros' own mount – and all to eager to help with anything and everything as Maedhros went about the albeit tricky process of tacking his spirited stallion with one hand. Elros copied the way he walked, following just a step behind and carefully bending his every limb to capture a grace that would not be his until many years had passed. He tried to mimic the way he talked even, _'but Maedhros says it like this,'_ a common phrase to hear whenever Maglor instructed the twins in the High-tongue. Often Maglor would sigh through his nose and wryly comment, _'Then he is saying it wrong too,'_ before moving on with a twinkle in his eye that made Maedhros ire catch whenever he was on the receiving end of it.  
  
When Elros appeared for the morning meal one day with his hair braided the exact same way Maedhros wore his, Maglor could not contain himself. He coughed into his bowl, and had to cover his amusement behind his hand lest he hurt the young one's feelings. Elros did not notice anyway, he being too busy returning his brother's raised brow, muttering, “I just like them this way,” in a defensive tone to Elrond's pointed questions.  
  
Elros then looked to Maedhros with those same star-lit eyes, and Maedhros held his gaze but a moment before looking away. He stood and took his leave, ignoring the hurt child he left behind. If the Perelda was wise, he would pick another to idolize. Not him, not . . .  
  
. . . anyone else would be better for Elros to strive to be. Anyone.  
  
“After six brothers and too many cousins to name, you do not have room in your heart for one more child?” Maglor asked later, and there was not a rebuke in his voice so much as a sadness, tired and worn.  
  
“And yet, look where they are now,” was Maedhros' only reply, and Maglor merely sighed, sounding old with many years as he touched his shoulder and then turned away.  
  
It was now raining, with the stormwater pounding against the roof of the crumbling keep they sought shelter in for the night. It had only been two years since he had taken the twins from the massacre at Sirion, and they still moved about the coast, waiting for word of Eärendil's return. They never stayed in one place for long, knowing that Gil-galad and Celeborn still had scouts following them, all patiently waiting for a moment they could steal the children away without risking their coming to harm. But Ereinion was a young king, and his men were stretched thin as it was with Morgoth freely walking the lands. He would not - could not - wage a full rescue when he could not muster the forces, and yet, it paid to be cautious for unexpected opportunities - opportunities Maedhros was determined not to provide.  
  
The stone hall around them used to belong to some minor chieftain of the Atani, and it had been abandoned centuries ago. It was not marked on any Elven map, seeing as how quickly the Sons of Men came and went from place to place, and they had counted themselves as fortunate to find shelter when the sky turned threatening overhead. The waves pounded on the tall cliffs beyond, sounding in place of thunder from above. They were all camped in the great hall of the keep, most sleeping softly in defiance of the raging storm beyond.  
  
Maglor rode ahead days ago, and had yet to return, leaving Maedhros and an elf named Arheston in charge of the children. The captain had presided over Maedhros' archers, of which there were now few left, and as a widower and a father with none of his children left alive, and he had gladly taken to helping Maglor with the twin's care. More subtly, he was also there to aid Maedhros with the tasks Maglor previously would – for not everything could be done with one hand – and he was grateful for the help of the other man.  
  
That night, when Arheston was finishing off the first plait in his hair, Elros had watched quietly before sincerely offering to help, and Maedhros had to fight a sigh. He had encouraged the child not, and still, Eärendil's son was as steady as a current in a river, never giving, and he was starting to feel as the stone the waters parted around.  
  
“When will Makalaurë be back?” Elros asked then, and Maedhros had blinked, for no one called his brother that but for he, and only in private councils, at that. Something had cut through him then, a memory of another time and place, when he had been _Russandol_ to many young ones, each confident of the smiles and undivided attention that would be theirs if they all but came near to him.  
  
_He looks like Fingon at that age_ , he thought next. Though the world would say _Lúthien_ with their glossy black hair and strange, pale grey eyes; he could see _Turgon_ in the shapes of their jaws and the crest of their brows. Turgon and Fingon had been similar in appearance, alike to the point where they had nearly seemed as the twins before him. The only differing trait between them had been Turgon's greater height – something which Fingon had been teased mightily about, and now . . .  
  
Maedhros swallowed, taken by memory; memories he had not thought of in much too long, and like a crack in a dam he could feel old thoughts and feelings returning unbidden.  
  
“ _Maglor_ ,” he had stressed his brother's Sindarin name, a name Elros' own forefather had condemned them to use, “will be back when he his tasks are complete. His comings and goings are of no concern to you.” His voice had been sharp, and for once Elros flinched, unsure as he drew back.  
  
Arheston looked at him oddly as he tied off the last braid, but Maedhros ignored the other man, waving him away as he settled down by his place at the fire. Sleep was slow in coming for him that night, but come it did with strange and twisting dreams - taking him from the holy heights of Taniquetil to the black smoke of Thangorodrim. Fingon stood there on the obsidion cliffs, holding three star-lit stones in his hands. He held them above a darkened void, asking him to choose between his family and the gems, his eyes resigned and pained.  
  
_Which do you love more?_ Fingon asked in a voice that was terrible and sad, but Maedhros had not been able to hear him, for he was then lunging for the gems, and falling once he held them, _falling_ , and -  
  
He awakened with a hiss of indrawn breath. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he could not get it to slow. He blinked, but saw only the darkened hall, the fires having long dwindled down to embers. Out of reflex, he looked to the side, and made sure that the twins were resting peacefully by the opposite side of the fire. Elrond was as far from him as was possible, as was his wont, and sleeping deeply. But Elros . . .  
  
Maedhros closed his eyes, but it was no use. The boy had seen him.  
  
A moment passed, and then another. He kept his eyes closed, but was not surprised when a small hand touched his shoulder, questioning.  
  
He fought the urge to sigh. “It is unwise to awaken one who sleeps with a dagger, child,” he rumbled, his voice dark with dreams and sleep.  
  
“But you are already awake,” Elros pointed out, and at that, Maedhros did sigh.  
  
He closed his eyes again, but heard as Elros scooted near, coming as close to him as he dared.  
  
“Did you have a nightmare?” the child asked.  
  
Maedhros was silent.  
  
“I heard you,” Elros whispered. “You called out names I did not recognize. Were they . . . were they your parents?”  
  
He flinched. Where he had tried to forget Fingon, Fëanor was always waiting for him behind every thought, as terrible and consuming in death as he had been in life. Maedhros remembered him with his mouth turned in scorn, calling him _no son of his_ as he had tried to stay his hand at Losgar. Fëanor had been father to none but his craft in the end, and Maedhros . . . why he still clawed for the one way to earn his father's approval, he did not know. But his Oath would allow him to do nothing else.  
  
“I do not like thinking about my parents, either,” Elros revealed on a whisper, seeing his wince and hesitantly interpreting it. “I do not remember my father, except that his hair was like the sun and he smelled of salt. My mother . . . she was not _real_ at times, and I think that I imagined her more often than not. She too had a light, but it was not like Adar's . . . She did not take care of nightmares, so we always took care of each other.”  
  
Still, Maedhros was silent.  
  
A moment passed, and then Elros continued, “Elrond has nightmares, though not like you or I. He sees things when he sleeps; things that often come to be. He saw you before you came, the elf with fire in his hair and fire in his eyes who would burn our home. I . . . I normally sit with him until he falls back asleep. It helps, he says. The bad dreams do not come if they know someone is watching. I . . . I could do that for you?”  
  
Maedhros turned over, putting his back to the child as he did so. He still did not answer him, and yet Elros was unperturbed.  
  
“It's okay,” Elros whispered softly, accepting an apology that would never come. “I will sit here with you.”  
  
He felt small hands pull his woolen blanket back up over his shoulders, awkwardly tucking him in, and at the small kindness, he felt something burn in his throat. He tried to swallow it away, but still a stone remained. He could not rid himself of it.  
  
He closed his eyes, and in the child's shadow, he slept without remembered dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Makalaurë** : Maglor  
>  **Perelda** : Quenya for 'Peredhel', meaning half-elven.  
>  **Russandol** : Epessë for Maedhros meaning 'copper-top'.
> 
> Revised: 6/29/17


	28. "not swallowed in the sea"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arafinwë & Olwë || Prompt: _Forgive_ , Free-write

**Forgive**  
  
The road from Tirion to Alqualondë was dark, so very dark. Shadow sat unmovable on the land, untouched by light for many days now. Even Varda's stars shone as if through a haze, illuminating little of the path below. The light had died in Aman as it was, and now there was only the traveler and the road, making his way by the thin light of the lamp he had to see by. But light crafted by hands did little to pierce the gloom around him, not for long. How could it, when the Trees' themselves were no more?  
  
Only weeks ago, when Arafinwë had made this same exact same journey, he had not noticed the bends in the path, the difficulties his horse had in finding his way. He had thought only _home_ and _Eärwen_ , his stomach rolling as he rehearsed how he would tell his wife of the carnage he had left behind. He had rode ahead of the few of his host who had repented of their flight, only knowing that he had to be _home_ , that _he_ had to be the one to tell his wife of the loss of her people – of the curse of _his_ people. And yet, he had been unable to find the words as he collapsed in Eärwen's arms, just steps away from the gate. He had been too heart-sick and soul-sore to speak, but it did not matter, for Eärwen had held him, and _known_ , seeing his thoughts as her own through the link that bound their souls. She had inhaled with a shuddering breath, only asking him aloud if their children followed behind him, her voice small but strong as she shaped the wishes of her heart with her mouth.  
  
And yet, even for that, he had no kind words with which to offer her comfort.  
  
 _His strong bride_ , he had though in the wake of his admission, Eärwen only nodding when he told her of their children joining Nolofinwë's host to cross the Helcaraxë to Endórë. _His strong bride_ , who had tried to hold together a city and a people who had never truly accepted her at Anairë's side before he turned back. _His brilliant wife_ , whose people had known nothing but a blade from the hands of his kin, and still she did not turn him aside. Like a tide to a shore, he found himself drawn back to her, and as the winds above gave the waves their shape, he found his strength rekindled and birthed anew from her own strength in those days that followed.  
  
He . . . he was the third son of an immortal King, the son least like Finwë, at that. The least _Noldo_ son, often was it said, but Arafinwë had always cared little for words – something that had always made him a calm ripple amongst the ripping currents of his family. _Peacekeeper_ , his father had often called him in a tired voice, but there was a gratitude there, as well - for Fëanáro could never truly hold anger against him, and Nolofinwë never wanted to. When arranging the details for his coronation, Findis had only raised a pale brow before wryly pointing out that all of the reasons he thought the crown ill suited to his brow were precisely the reasons his people needed him now.  
  
And yet . . . his father was supposed to live forever. If the unlikely happened and Finwë gave his crown to his son, it would be to Fëanáro's brow, and then his seven sons after that. The unthinkable would have to happen for Arafinwë to take up the mantle of leadership. And yet . . .  
  
. . . the unthinkable had happened. The unthinkable had taken Finwë's last breath and prompted his brothers to give his murderer chase to Endórë, while he stayed behind and tried to hold together the land that laid ravaged in their wake. The thought was a burden that made him turn new eyes to the path, determined for its passing.  
  
Now, youngest son though he was, the crown was his, and to him it belonged to pull a fractured people back together again. Few were the Noldor who stayed in Aman, and his people were now those older and those younger, for the most part. Those old enough to remember the Great Journey cared but little to seek out such toils again in Middle-earth, and those young enough to not yet know the wanderlust and stagnant stillness of many years could not find the want to leave. Many of their women stayed behind, caring little to loose husbands and worry about the safety of their children in a land where all could be lost in the flickering of a heartbeat. This, Arafinwë knew all to well from his own household. Amarië walked their halls at Eärwen's side, as if waiting, but he knew as well as she that her wait would be a long one – and she was not the only one with a loved one far from her side for greed and the promise of _more_ and _new_ across the sea. Eldalótë was Noldor and proud, and she would not weep for her husband's flight so much as she merely squared her jaw and carried on as if Angaráto was still there as ever. Without the light, Anairë still donned her heavy robes of court and arranged her hair in elaborate piles of braids, the styles lopsided for her lack of seeing, and carried on as ever in the affairs of their people. Although he knew that his brother and goodsister did not have the marriage of flames that Fëanáro and his bride had, or even the easy love he had with his wife, that did not mean that they loved each other any less for the coolness of their affections. Anairë was hard and practical, and without her good sense, he knew that his people would be that much worse for the wear.  
  
His people . . . those who stayed learned the hardships of living without the light. The months since the Trees last shone meant that all had strained eyes and aches of the head that grew only worse with each passing day, they having ever to strain their eyes to see. Injuries were more and more common as they all adjusted to the not-light, and a strange sickness accompanied the dark – a sickness of yellowing skin and increasingly black moods, they not realizing how their bodies fed off of the light as much as their souls did.  
  
And yet, more importantly, was the lack of food they were starting to face. They already survived on rations, but their last harvest would only get them so far, and without the light of the Trees to let them glean the fields anew . . . Their hunting was thin, as well, with the creatures of the forest falling from the lack of sustenance from the earth. While the Valar said only _soon_ and _patience_ to the dawn of a new light in the world, Arafinwë could only have so much patience while his people suffered around him. And so . . .  
  
He rode to Alqualondë.  
  
It was a ride he already took for personal reasons – for Olwë was both King of the Teleri in Alqualondë and father to his wife, at that. Olwë's people had suffered gravely from the hands of his kin, and reparations would have to be made. Trepidation rose in him for the conversation to come, and he felt ill for it. Never before had the road to Alqualondë given him grief, it had always been quite the opposite, actually. Alqualondë always meant peace and warmth to his soul. In Alqualondë he had been allowed to grow far from the shadow of his father's court when Finwë had sent him away. In Alqualondë he had found both the love of his life, and a love _for_ life . . . he found his calling in the sea and all she had to offer. He found his peace in the white sands and the surf with its pearl foam and blue, blue waves. He had found himself, and only moved back to Tirion at his father's insistence when Melkor's lies grew and his family moved to tear itself asunder from the inside out with each passing day.  
  
Always . . . always did the people of Alqualondë sing. The Lindar could scarce be silenced, and their song could be heard for leagues down the coast and far down the road that approached their city from the south. Now their voices rose in lament, their song tugging at something deep inside of him and _turning_. He looked, and yet, the haven of his youth was now in turmoil. The graceful, shell colored city laid in ruin from flames. The quays were in pieces and the great harbors where the shipmasters crafted their wares were as scars against the silver shores. Broken ships, ones that had not survived Fëanáro's wrath, and the sea storms to follow, laid in the water, half sunken as the Teleri fought to scavenge what they could, and rebuild once more.  
  
If he blinked, he could remember the red of blood and the sounds of screaming – both the pain of the dying and the war cries of those living. He could remember the flashing of steel, and hear the curses shouted by both sides. He could remember his daughter wading into the thick of the battle to defend her mother's people, and his sons as they stood, stunned and unmovable for the carnage before them.  
  
He remembered, and now he rode through the city streets to find hard eyes meeting him wherever he turned. Never once before had he been ashamed of Finwë's blood in his veins, of his father's colors about his shoulders and his father's crown upon his brow, but now . . .  
  
He did not bow his head; but he knew shame, deep inside, for the ruin about him.  
  
Olwë's court was in full session when he was admitted by the herald. Silence instantly cut through the corral hall when his name was called, many unkind eyes falling upon him and staring as he walked forward. Noblemen and lords, whose sons he had known and cherished looked on him with stone brows and unmovable eyes. He looked, and saw many lords who now _were_ those sons, they taking up the mantles of their fathers as those who had fallen were replaced by those who still stood. And there were so many missing, he saw as he looked for eyes he would never again find. He looked, and saw a loss that would never be filled. Olwë himself lost two sons in the Kinslaying, brothers whom Eärwen had wept for as she would not weep for the loss of her children. And it was through fault of his house, fault of his blood. _Friend_ , Finwë had known Olwë as, and their friendship one of ancient days, but now . . .  
  
He swallowed, and fell to his knee before Olwë's throne. He had always known Olwë as a father, even more so than his own sire . . . Olwë, who always had a smile and laughter like the roar of the waves for him . . . Olwë with his seashells braided into his hair and his robes of silver and blue like the scales of the fish in the reef. Olwë, who had not of a smile or a kind eye for the son of Finwë now . . .  
  
“You are brave coming here, Finwion,” came the crack of a voice, cutting through the silence that followed in the wake of his arrival. It was all Arafinwë could do not to wince upon hearing so. Upon his head, his father's crown was heavy.  
  
“I come,” he had to try twice to find his voice, far as it was from him. He had not felt this small as when he had fell before Manwë's throne to beg forgiveness for his people's sins. He had not felt such a weight beneath Varda's stare as he did beneath the unkind eyes of Olwë whom he loved, and Olwë whom he respected. He swallowed, and started again, “I come before you, your grace, humble and penitent -”  
  
A ripple went through the court. A snort fell from Olwë's mouth, “Forgive us,” he interjected, “for believing little of the humility of the Noldor.”  
  
He smarted at the unfairness of the accusation. Carefully, he swallowed back his words, instead saying, “You have a right for anger -”  
  
“ - you and yours came before us in friendship,” Olwë was not willing to hear him speak. Instead, his words rushed from him, building on his tongue as they had been for many days. “You asked for our counsel in sailing the sundering sea to Endórë beyond. We counseled you to wait, to make your decision when you bore not of grief in your hearts and rage in your bones for Melkor's deeds. When you would see not of reason, or patience, we told you you could not take our seacraft, for they were built of our hands and hearts – something your _brother_ should have understood more fully than any other. And yet, the same crimes Fëanáro would lay at Melkor's door, he instead committed himself – _taking_ what he wanted, and _slaying_ any who stood in his way.”  
  
Olwë sighed, raising his hand to rub at his temples. When he spoke, his voice had lost it's edge. He sounded weary then, weighed down by many days. “I am old amongst our kind, Arafinwë. I know of a sword and what it means to hold that sword with war in mind. But my people are a people born of Aman, not of the land beyond the sea. They knew not of violence, they knew nothing of the sword – especially from those they knew as kindred and friends. I have never seen the like of it, and pray that I never need see so again.”  
  
“Fëanáro was the one who dismissed your counsel, and took steel in hand. And for that, he bears his own curse,” Arafinwë felt a line enter his voice, unwilling as he was to be charged for his brother's crimes.  
  
“And yet,” Olwë raised a silver brow, “Nolofinwë's children too held swords, charging in blindly before realizing what quarrel was at hand. Your Artanis, even -”  
  
“ - held a sword _for_ her mother's kin,” Arafinwë's voice was sharp for the first, interrupting his goodfather. “For that she too is cursed, and for that too she must find peace within herself. And yet, I will not see her name brought to slight here, not from your mouth.” He inhaled, gathering his peace. He softened his voice. “But those who wronged you are gone now, and they bear their own burden across the sea, wearing the doom of Námo heavy about their shoulders. Those who are left would beg that you remember your friendship, and your mercy . . . the same as we would ask that you let us help your people rebuild. For we are craftsman, and we helped you raised Alqualondë in the early days. We would again, if you would but let us.”  
  
A moment passed. “What are you asking of us, Finwion?” Olwë tilted his head, curious for the first.  
  
“My people exist on borrowed time,” Arafinwë said. He was still on one knee before Olwë's throne. He had not been given permission to stand and face his fellow king as an equal. “What we have to sustain ourselves will not last us another season without the light to grow our fields anew. But your people live off of the bounty of the sea, and it will take much longer for her stores to run dry. In exchange for our builders and craftsman, we would ask for permission to fish in your waters -”  
  
He was met by a ripple of amusement from the court. Olwë's snort was sharp in reply to his words. “Always are the Noldor quick to take,” Olwë said, his voice filled with scorn. “Finwë would be ashamed for the actions of his sons, on this day and many others.”  
  
“Would Finwë be shamed to resort to any means to provide for the people who are left? The people who did you no wrong? Your daughter is amongst those who live on less and lesser still. The women who were dear to your grandsons have stayed behind, and they too will starve – and they are your kin in blood, not only in heart. Those who have stayed in Aman have harmed your people not, and in petty retribution and spite you would treat them as Fëanáro treated you?” He noticed with satisfaction as his words hit like a lance, sharp from his tongue. This time, he felt a righteous pride fill him for the ill looks that were turned his way.  
  
Ignoring the eyes who widened, he fell to both of his knees, rather than just one. He looked up, and knew that his crown caught on the dim lanterns in the hall – lit by the phosphorescents of the sea, the Teleri at home with the half-light, they always being furthest from the light of the Trees, even in their halcyon days.  
  
“My name is Arafinwë Ingalaurë,” he spoke out strongly, letting his voice ring in every corner of Olwë's hall. “I am the third son of Finwë Noldóran, the First King of the Second Clan. I am brother in half to Fëanáro Curufinwë, brother in full to Nolofinwë Arakáno. If it is a weregild you seek, if retribution is needed to ensure that my people are cared for, then I ask that you take it from my soul rather than theirs. I am the only one with Fëanáro's shared blood this side of the sea, and I will pay for his crimes _in_ blood if need be. If this is the price needed to cool the wrath of Alqualondë, then it is a price I shall pay – and pay gladly.”  
  
He leaned forward, bending at the waist to press his forehead to the cool stone of the floor before Olwë's throne. He bowed, his hands forming a triangle before his inclined head. He waited, his life in the Telerin King's hands as Olwë rose, coming to him with a slow, careful step. He waited to hear the sound of steel being unsheathed, truly uncertain as he was of his fate in that moment. And yet, he felt curiously buoyant as he waited to feel a blade at the skin of his neck. He felt weightless, as if he treated water on a calm day; peace filled every corner of his being as he thought that perhaps this was why he turned back from his people's flight. Perhaps it was because his blood was needed to mend this feud, perhaps his blood was merely waiting to fill this hole. _Peacekeeper_ , his father had so often called him. _Pacifist_ , Fëanáro scorned when his words turned hot. _Weak_ _ling of a prince, wast_ _ing the might_ _of Finwë's blood_ , Melkor had once scathed, disgusted when he could not find yet another pawn to use in his game, his claws unable for find a place to pierce where no ambition laid.  
  
 _I do not understand the stillness of your heart_ , Artanis had whispered in frustration when he had said his goodbyes at the mouth of the Helcaraxë. He had held her close and prayed that Endórë would grant a peace to her soul, a wisdom to her insights, one he could not explain to her with words alone.  
  
He prayed now, one last time, for both those who moved on and those who were left behind, when -  
  
Olwë's shadow fell upon him, but not with a sword.  
  
His goodfather knelt before him in a graceless gesture, and then he felt strong arms gathering him close, as if he was a small child homesick in a foreign court once more. Olwë inhaled, and his breath was shuddering in his chest. Arafinwë could feel his grief as it pulled at his own spirit, seeing with his Sight as Olwë mourned for the loss of his sons and the loss of his people. But he felt a love underneath it all, affection for the man he had become, and pride for his own role in shaping such a being before him, even, and -  
  
“Already have I laid two sons to rest,” Olwë said, his voice loud enough for all to hear. He did not bother to hide the grief in his voice; he saw no need to. “I would not be able to bear seeing the blood of another one spilled.”  
  
Olwë's arms tightened around him, and Arafinwë returned the embrace as best as he could, relief filling his heart. He could smell sea salt on the sweet ocean air as he inhaled. The shells in Olwë's hair twinkled as he rose to his feet, and offered him a hand.  
  
Arafinwë reached out, and let the other help him to stand.  
  
“Me and mine will offer you what help we may,” Olwë said, his voice filling the hall around him. His eyes were very bright then, his presence filling the court as he remembered his own father doing, Olwë too one of the great leaders who had lead their people to Aman in the eldest days. “And, in return, we look forward to what aid you may offer in our rebuilding. In each, may our people recover the love they once bore for each other.”  
  
The reaction from Olwë's court was wary, but slowly, the noblemen around him nodded. They took to their knees, acknowledging their lord's decision before turning to make it so. Arafinwë released a breath he had not realized he had been holding, feeling the hostility in the room turn, but just slightly.  
  
It would be a long road to forgiveness between their peoples, he knew, but it was a road that was now being walked, and walked for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Angaráto** : Angrod  
>  **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Lindar** : Another term for the Teleri, meaning 'singers'.


	29. "come home with a smooth, round stone"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros || Prompt: _Forget_ , Free-write
> 
> This is another Maedhros in the Fourth Age fic, carrying on from chapter 16, _"the work of two hands"_. It was also written with the last vignette in mind, so it carries many of the same themes. :)

**Forget**  
  
It was not until moments like this that Maedhros realized that he had never properly appreciated the home he had left behind.  
  
In days bygone, he'd once explored the whole of Aman - from the northern woods to the far shores of the Outer Sea. He had traveled the black forests framing Mandos' untouchable Halls, and ventured as far south as the shadowed lands of Avanthar. Yet, for all his journeys, he'd not once understood the simple peace that came from sitting on the white sands of their own eastern shores. He'd never truly slowed down to enjoy the glory of the Swan Havens.

As it was in the time of the Trees, Alqualondë was still a land of half-light; the sun was always either rising or setting on the horizon, without ever completely climbing to its high pinnacle in the sky. The gentle rays painted the sea in shades of pink and gold, and orange and red further out over the water, nearer to the horizon. The play of light caught his gaze; he could feel the sway of the gentle waves as they danced with the pull of the moon.  
  
He'd been there for some time, simply sitting at the end of that one lone dock. He was at a quandary in his journey - both unable to continue his journey north, but not quite willing to turn back on the road. Not yet.  
  
_Are you going to move from there?_ Fingon's voice teased from the back of his mind. Further on, in the city proper, his friend had long since felt his approach, and was waiting for him to find the courage to complete his road. It may yet be a long wait for the other - Maedhros hadn't decided, and yet, Fingon had long Ed a steady patience where he was concerned.  
  
Maedhros inhaled deeply, and let his breath out slow, still watching where the sunlight danced over the waves. The salt teased at his nose.  
  
Every few years, Arafinwë would take time away from Tirion in order to visit his wife's people in Alqualondë. This time, Nolofinwë asked leave to accompany his brother, and Fingon was quick to invite himself along. When Maedhros asked him why, Fingon solemnly explained that he had not yet formally sought out Olwë's apology for his actions of so long ago – with four ages of the sun having already passed since that first slaying of kin on kin. After the silence had grown between them, Fingon had carefully asked if he too would go to offer his own apologies. Maedhros had been quick to turn him down. Olwë would not be as . . . eager to accept the grief and regrets of a Oath-sworn Kinslayer as he would be to assure Fingon the Valiant of his place within his heart, and Maedhros did not care to revisit such old wounds, long scabbed over and forgotten.  
  
_Forgotten_ . . . Fingon had raised a brow at that, but had not pushed him further. Instead, he'd smiled that smile that meant that he expected him to reach his own conclusions without any further input on his part.  
  
Fingon leaving him for Alqualondë was the first time he had truly been alone since his re-embodiment. A childish part of Maedhros wanted to point out that Fingon's doing so was no doubt against Námo's conditions for his release from the Halls, but the solemn Vala was currently silent within his mind - and Maedhros knew the Dread Lord to be quick to offer his counsel uninvited whenever he saw fit before. Perhaps, he reflected darkly, this was merely a source of amusement for the Judge, and he would hear no more from him until he was given cause to speak.  
  
Maedhros did not much care to remain behind, alone, and he most certainly did not wish to appear as if he was sulking. And yet . . . there were few places in Aman where he could expect a friendly welcome. Tirion he could not yet bring himself to visit, and he knew little reason - or desire - to journey to Valmar. He'd ventured to the Holy Mountain but rarely, even when he'd known an unblackened name. He briefly considered journeying to visit Nerdanel in the north, where she'd rejoined Mahtan's kin in the days before they swore their Oath. And yet . . . he had no wish to open up old wounds for his mother, nor did he know how to fill the awkward silences with words when there was nothing that could yet be said.  
  
He _had_  tried staying with Elrond's folk for a day or so; truly he had. Their settlement was to the south-west of Alqualondë, close enough to both Tirion and the Teleri shores, where the riverways in the Pelóri mountains fell in great waterfalls - much like the home they'd left across the Sea. The peaceful city was filled with many of the Noldor and Sindar from Endórë in the later days, and their numbers grew with each passing season. While Maedhros ever found a waiting welcome there, Elrond too was set to leave with his wife and sons for the ever growing family gathering at Alqualondë - the same as Fingon was - and Maedhros was to be left behind again.  
  
Elrond had tried much as Fingon had to reason with him - bidding that he ride forth in the light of a new day and seek forgiveness where he truly knew repentance. Yet, though Maedhross had just as difficult a time with giving his paltry arguments to his former ward as he did to his cousin, his mind was made. Somewhere along the line, Elrond had grown from both the wary child he'd helped raise, and the much too young soldier he'd known at the end of the War of Wrath; now, he had difficulty with crossing his words with him and coming out the better.  
  
 . . . to think that he'd once been known for his way with words in his grandfather's court, if _Turgon's_ great-grandson could outwit him so - _Turgon_ , whose strength was not in the shape of his words, but the shape of his beliefs. Silver-tongued indeed, Maedhros thought ruefully. He held grey stone in his mouth since being returned to a physical existence, worthless and clumsy in shape.  
  
Maedhros wanted to tell Turgon this - even if he only admitted his longing to himself. But that was yet another apology to seek and gain in return . . . in time.  
  
_He knows much of forgiving impossible things, for he loves you, does he not?_ Celebrían had whispered into his ear when he gathered his cloak to leave. _Listen to him and take heart, dear one_ , she had said before kissing his cheek, and her soft words had burned as ardently as all of Elrond's carefully thought arguments.  
  
Now . . . now, Maedhros had made it as far as the southern reaches of Alqualondë's waters. He sat at the edge of that one forgotten dock, unable to go any further and yet unwilling to turn back.  
  
The waters were calm today; the waves a steady ebb and flow as they came and retreated over and over again. Overhead a gull called, crying out to the sky. He wondered if any of the winged folk were of Elwing's ilk, and felt another twist in his stomach for yet another apology he'd someday have to make.  
  
_Is this your true torment?_ he asked, seeking out where Námo was always ready and waiting at the edge of his consciousness. _Did you return me to life again,_ _only_ _to be swallowed by these regrets?_  
  
_Do you truly live again,_ _child_ _?_ came the Fëanturi's reply. As always, Maedhros had to steel himself against the whisper, for Námo had a voice that was more a black wind and the sound of heartbeats than any shape of sound a throat could form.  
  
_I breathe_ , Maedhros shrugged to accompany the thought. _Is that not enough?_  
  
_Your_ _pulse knew_ _more_ _of life_ _in my Halls than it does now in the fresh air and sunlight_ , Námo's voice dipped in disapproval. The sound of heartbeats quickened; Maedhros heard the cadence of war drums and marching feet. _Tread lightly with the gift I gave, lest I be tempted to take it back,_ _Fëanorian._ _Never have you been idle, in life nor in death; and the chance to put t_ _o_ _rights the wrongs that kept your soul from healing you will now let consume you? This is not Nelyafinwë Maitimo as I have come to know him._  
  
_Know you so well the make of me?_ Maedhros retorted, well aware that his reply was a childish reply. He was unable to think of anything else to say.  
  
_From every line of bone to each ray of your spirit's light do I intimately know you_ , the Vala rose to his challenge. _Do not_ _push_ _me, child, for never have I twice_ _needed to_ _grant a spirit life._ _You shall not leave my keeping a second time_ _._  
  
He had no reply for the Vala, yet Námo expected none. The shadow left his mind, signaling the end of their conversation, and Maedhros sighed as he leaned back against the dock. He laid down in weariness, closing his eyes against the sunlight. He let the song of the waves lull him, until -  
  
 - something wet dripped down onto his face.  
  
He blinked, and reached up to wipe the droplet of seawater away. But another fell . . . and another.  
  
Annoyed, he opened his eyes and looked up to see large, sea-green eyes looking curiously down at him. The dripping culprit was a child, a little girl with silver braids turned the color of rainclouds from the water that soaked her hair. She must have just come from the ocean, he understood, sitting up to see where her wet footprints went back to the ladder by the front post of the dock. He raised a brow, and found the look returned as the child put a hand on her hip, where her underclothes were wet from the surf.  
  
“This is my dock, and you are trespassing,” the child said, her voice a quick spin of Telerin vowels. It took him a moment to understand her speech, with the years having turned the language past what he remembered from his own youth. “Who are you, vagrant?”  
  
“I,” he answered, trying not to reveal his amusement for the child's show of pique, “am simply a traveler, who knew not that this dock belonged to any. Please, forgive me for my trespassing.”  
  
She looked at him from narrowed eyes, gauging his sincerity. But his Noldorin clothes and flame colored hair were as telling as anything else he could have spoken. Her look softened, and she declared: “All here know this dock belongs to Nemmírië - but your ignorance can be forgiven, as you are not of our kind.”  
  
“The lady is gracious,” Maedhros said, allowing himself a half smile at the girl's haughtiness - reminded as he was of Artanis in her youth. “I saw not of any boat, else I would not have even begun to assume.”  
  
Nemmírië blinked, her cheeks flushing. “I have not of my own craft,” she admitted. “I am too young, my father says, to sail on my own. So, for now, I use the dock for this.” She turned and reached into the water to pull up a net she had tied to the ladder, showing him where she had a dozen or so oysters caught.  
  
“I am searching for pearls,” she explained. “I find only one or so each summer, and even then nothing like what the pearl-divers find in the deeper waters - but I shall someday make a crown from them, and stand at the helm of my own ship with the catch of my hands about my brow.”  
  
“It is a worthy goal,” Maedhros said, moved by the simple aspirations of youth. He distantly remembered his father trading gems of his own make for pearls from Alqualondë, and he felt a pang that was not only bitterness as he remembered happier times.  
  
She rolled her shoulders, looking at him out of the corner of her eyes as she did so. “If you wish,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “You may help me. Unless you were planning to sleep in the sun all day?”  
  
He looked at the water, and then back at her. Maedhros hesitated. Whichever Telerin mariner who owned this dock would not care for their daughter spending time with a Kinslayer - that he knew very well.  
  
“I have not swam in many years,” he demurred, trying to evade her request.  
  
It was the wrong thing to say. “ _Years_?” came the squeaked reply. The girl's eyes went wide with surprise. “You have gone years without swimming? I cannot imagine such a thing . . . How many _years_ has it been?”  
  
He shrugged. “Not in this lifetime, and long in the last.” Not since teaching Elros to swim in the calm waters where the river Brithon poured into the sea, he remembered, and knew another pang for thinking so.   
  
“ _In this lifetime,_ ” she repeated, slowly unraveling the riddle in her mind before understanding lit in her eyes. “You are one of the Twice-born, newly returned from Mandos' keeping?” she both asked and answered her own question at once. “Well then, you must certainly swim with me. I would be honored for your aid.”  
  
Even so, he opened his mouth to protest. She saw his intention, and cut him off by adding, “And beside, a pearl from your efforts is the price I demand for use of my dock.”  
  
“You drive a hard bargain,” Maedhros said, looking at her from stern eyes. It was a gaze he had not needed to use since Eärendil's sons were very young and prone to mischief. Nemmírië was not much impressed, he reflected - and yet, neither had the twins been much affected, this he remembered ruefully.  
  
“For a very little while,” he finally gave. “Then I must be on my way.”  
  
“A very little while is all I ask,” she said, getting to her feet again. She emptied her net on the dock, and then turned to him. “The oysters are in the seabed,” she pointed at the still waters. “All you must do is dive for them, shift the sand, and take what you find. Simple?”  
  
“Very,” Maedhros answered. He unclasped his cloak, and reached down to unlace his boots. As always, it took him a moment to remember how to do so with both hands. More often than not, his right hand remained useless at his side, and he completed his tasks with his left hand until two hands were absolutely called for. It was a habit he could not yet shake.  
  
All the while, Nemmírië watched him. She tilted her head curiously. “Are you left handed?” she asked.  
  
“Not quite,” he answered, not sure how to answer her without giving an explanation he did not care to give.  
  
“I am left handed,” she said, holding up the now empty net with her left hand. She wiggled her fingers. “My tutors try to accustom me to using my right hand, but my Atar tells them that I may use whichever hand that Eru intended for me to use.”  
  
The corner of his mouth raised, just slightly. “You have a wise father.”  
  
“Many say so,” she shrugged. “But he did not have time to find pearls with me today, so the Valar sent me you. I do not yet think it was a fair trade.”  
  
“The lady judges me already?” Maedhros returned her teasing. “That is unfair.”  
  
She snorted, tossing her head. The seashells in her braids twinkled in the sunlight. “Prove me your worth, Caracawë, and I shall take back my words.” She grinned impishly at him, and then jumped into the water with a breathless _yipe!_  The water swallowed her, and he watched her shadow move beneath the waves.  
  
_Caracawë_ , he blinked at the name the young one gave him. _Red-top_ in the Telerin tongue . . . _Russandol_ , as he had not been called in many years.  
  
Against his will, his mouth turned up fully, and he smiled. He too then dove, and let the ocean enfold him.  
  
With only one hand, he had not much cared for swimming in his previous body. In Endórë there had been little opportunity for simple leisures, at that, not with the constant burden of war and its fighting . . . not with their Oath and its ever reaching hands. But now he was not forsworn, and he had only his years open and many before him until the end came and the Valar again made their use of him – with he still waiting to pay his dues in a way that had yet to be demanded of him.  
  
Yet, the ocean was now rolling over him with an easy, restless current, and he let the waters carry him as he dove down through the crystal depths, towards where Nemmírië was already searching the sandy bottom for oysters. He lost himself in the task, letting the dance of the water and the play of the sunlight on the waves above him take his thoughts and his cares.  
  
When they had more oysters than the net could hold, he helped Nemmírië take the net in hand, and they kicked for the surface again. He gestured, letting the girl climb up onto the dock first while he climbed out with the net after her. In his first life, this would have been a task impossible to him – or rather, far much trickier – but now it was a thoughtless motion as he took his seat next to the girl on the edge of the dock.  
  
She took out a small knife, and started opening the oysters with easy, skilled hands. The sandy brown shells were as a fold of metal in his father's hands to the child as she searched for hidden treasures within.  
  
Maedhros retrieved his own knife, and started copying her motions. He blinked when she scooped the meat from the oysters empty of pearls, eating them right then and there while humming happily to do so. He looked down at the pearl-less oyster in his hands, dubious. He had not had raw seafood in many years, not since the last time he was a favorable guest in Olwë's court. Distantly, he remembered Eärwen smiling as he put too much of one green sauce on the raw fish – to disguise the taste, he then refused to admit – and choked on the spice. Arafinwë was only one year his senior in age, and his aunt and uncle had been more of his peers than his elders – leaving Eärwen no qualms as she laughed in delight at the face he made before passing him water. He had learned to enjoy the fruits of the sea since then, but not since . . .  
  
 . . . it had simply been a long time, he reflected, and cut that trail of thought off there.  
  
Nemmírië watched him, and nodded when he copied her, pleased. “Do you know how pearls are formed?” she asked as she sliced into the next oyster. The iridescent shell within gleamed, catching on the light.  
  
He did. A part of him remembered Fëanor speaking at length about the process, giving long names for the substance the oyster secreted and coated its growing treasure in. And yet, “Tell me,” he said.  
  
“Oysters have no fingers,” she started to explain, her voice bright and easy as she said so. “So, when something gets stuck inside of the shell – like a piece of rock or fish bone – that piece of something itches, and it irritates the oyster. So, the oyster secretes this . . . this stuff, and that stuff hardens around the rock or fish bone in hundreds of tiny layers until a pearl is formed. It turns something irritating into something beautiful, something smooth and easy to the touch.”  
  
Fëanor had not quite explained it that way, Maedhros thought in amusement, and yet, he found that he much preferred her way with words. He placed his empty shell aside, and then opened the next oyster to a small round shape in the fleshly membrane. He cut the membrane away, and saw -  
  
“A pearl!” Nemmírië exclaimed, leaning over to the see the treasure he had in hand. She peered at the small pearl he uncovered, even as Maedhros critiqued it's worth. It was a lopsided, oval shape, irregular and imperfect, and yet beautiful for its dancing color. It would carry no value past a pretty trinket, and yet Nemmírië grinned, loving it as if he held a perfect pearl the size of a grape in his hand.  
  
“That it is,” he agreed, freeing the gem fully for her. He handed her the pearl, but she shook her head. Instead, she closed his fingers over the trinket, and pushing it back to him.  
  
“Your payment for my trespassing,” he reminded her, curious as to why she refused. “Do you not want it?”  
  
But she shook her head. “No,” she said. “You found it; I want you to have it.”  
  
“What of your crown, child?” he asked, raising a copper red brow.  
  
She returned his look. “As if this poor, dented thing would be worthy of such a place,” she sniffed with an exaggerated haughtiness. “And yet . . . something irritating in the beginning . . . something beautiful in the end . . . Yes, it is right for you to have it.”  
  
It took him a moment to follow her child's logic. And then: “Are you calling me irritating?” he could not help but ask.  
  
“When you were lounging on my dock, yes,” she shrugged. “But now you are my friend, so the gift is appropriate.”  
  
He snorted, amused at her reasoning. “Well then, Nemmírië, I accept your most gracious gift.”  
  
“And you, Caracawë,” she smiled at him, “I thank you for yours.”  
  
They went through the rest of the oysters without finding anything else, but she did not seem to mind as she gathered the empty shells together – with not a part of the sea's gifts wasted by the Teleri.  
  
She then stood and tilted her head to the side when a voice further up the beach called for her. Maedhros looked, and saw where a tall figure was approaching, walking with quick, purposeful strides over the sand. Maedhros felt a whisper of warning, and, trusting that warning after thousands of years of such instincts, he went to put back on his boots and cloak as Nemmírië gathered her things.  
  
He placed the pearl safely aside, making sure that it rested deep within an inner pocket. He whistled, looking to where he had left his bay stallion grazing on the sparse grass growing further up on the dunes. The horse nickered, flicking his tail in irritation at the interruption, and Maedhros sighed.  
  
“My father comes,” Nemmírië said when she saw his intention to leave. She was wringing the sea water from her braids with practiced hands. “You must stay and meet him now. We are not to be long here, for there is a large gathering of my family to the north in my grandfather's halls. We will be away by first light tomorrow.”  
  
Maedhros blinked, and the note of warning became a furious tattoo as it beat against his chest. “Your grandfather?” he asked slowly, making sense of a larger picture in his mind.  
  
“King Olwë of the Teleri,” she inclined her head. “My father is Airendil Olwion – he is Twice-born, like yourself.”  
  
Airendil was the youngest of Olwë's four children, Maedhros remembered as if through a haze. Airendil had been a brave lad with stubborn hands that had not known ease over the hooked knife he had pointed at Fëanor's chest. The prince had refused to relinquish the king's ship to Fëanor, and he had stood proud and unyielding until -  
  
 . . . his father had not even blinked before running him through, Maedhros dully remembered. They had not been able to get rid of Airendil's body until they were well to sea and past the storms the ocean had called in lament for their deeds. Fëanor had been agitated and restless then, demanding that _he_  see to the dead elf, and in a moment of rage and black, horrible self-loathing, Maedhros had snapped at his father, challenging Fëanor to see to the corpse he had felled. What kind of craftsman was he, if he could not see his fine work through to the end? Only when Fëanor had threatened to send him too over the side with Airendil had he turned away, leaving the unsavory task to his brothers.  
  
Now . . . now Airendil must have been released from Mandos' Halls to life anew. And recently, it would seem, if he had a daughter this young. Maedhros tried to remember, and distantly recalled Airendil having a sweetheart. How did she fare through the Kinslaying? Did she too fall to a sword on that dark day? Did she fade from her grief, as many couples did when one was torn from the other? Or, did she live and wait for him all of those years? Did -  
  
“Atar!” Nemmírië called, waving as Airendil came closer. “You must meet the friend I have made. This is Caracawë – a traveler, and he helped me hunt for pearls.”  
  
Maedhros stood frozen in place, unable to retreat as he wished to as Airendil came closer. Airendil had always looked staggeringly like Olwë, with his lithe build and his silver hair. His eyes were the same molting of grey and blue that Olwë bore – that Thingol bore, Maedhros remembered with another pang. Where he had not been able to tell Nemmírië apart from a common child (though the ease of command and simple haughtiness now made sense), he instantly knew Airendil for a prince for the silver circlet upon his head and the richness of his clothes, even when made for traveling. _Traveling_ , which meant -  
  
“You were to be back hours ago,” Airendil said, ignoring his daughter's introductions for the moment. Maedhros looked, and did not have to wonder if Airendil recognized him. There were times when being one of so few with red hair amongst his kind was not the easiest of burdens to bear, he thought; the reflection grim within his mind. “Your mother waits for you.”  
  
“Oh . . . I am sorry,” Nemmírië said, looking curiously at her father. Her brow knit in an obvious question.  
  
Just barely, Airendil's look softened. “She is not cross,” he amended his words. “Merely waiting. Do not keep her.”  
  
“I shall not,” Nemmírië assured him, smiling once again. Airendil leaned down to kiss his daughter's brow before sending her on her way. Nemmírië ran half way up the dune before looking back. She then waved, her smile a wide expression upon her face “I am pleased to have met you, Caracawë!” she exclaimed, and then was on her way.  
  
All the while, Airendil was watching him, rather than his daughter. Something not dark . . . but weary, flickered in his eyes at the endearment. “Russandol you are again,” he noted, the timbre of his voice without infliction. “Strange are the ways of fate.”  
  
“It was by chance,” Maedhros assured him, inclining his head demurely. “I truly was only passing through, and I did not know that the dock was spoken for. I am sorry for tarrying where I clearly do not belong.”  
  
Airendil swallowed. Maedhros watched as his jaw tightened . . . as his hands made fists. Then: “You passed this way to avoid familiar faces, I take it?"  
  
“That is putting it simply,” Maedhros answered, not hiding from what was clear to see.  
  
“Four ages beneath the sun have passed," Airendil remarked. For a moment, Maedhros could not tell if Airendil spoke so to him, or to himself.  
  
“And yet, four ages beneath the sun is time not long enough,” Maedhros replied, bleakly rolling his shoulders.  
  
“Námo thought it so, did he not?” Airendil returned.  
  
It was Maedhros' turn to raise a brow, unsure of where the Telerin prince was heading. “And yet . . . many have thought the Valar to be mistaken before. I doubt that this will be the last time their judgment is questioned.”  
  
Airendil let out a breath, which could have been a sigh of amusement under any other set of circumstances but their own. Maedhros waited.  
  
“Still,” Airendil spread his hands. “You found yourself returning to the sea.”  
  
Maedhros took in a breath. He hesitated. “I was trying to convince myself to complete my journey to your father's halls when your daughter found me. I . . . I had not yet made my mind to continue on, or turn around." With his left hand, he found the pearl in his pocket; he could not let the smooth shape be. “I . . . I am sorry for how I wronged both you and your kin after the Darkening. I know more regret than words could say, or years could atone for. But, for what it's worth, I do wish to give my apologies, and make my peace with your people if I may.”  
  
For a long moment, Airendil was silent. He looked to the horizon, and then back again, a muscle in his cheek moving with his thoughts. “You are not the only one who was slow to walk from Mandos' Halls,” Airendil finally murmured, his words thoughtful. “I would not have been allowed to return to this life anew if I was not able to let go of my anger and forgive. Forgive . . . and forget. And I have, long before I heard an apology from you.”  
  
Something inside of Maedhros shifted at the words. He could feel a rise of feeling shudder in his chest. His knees felt weak in that moment. The fingers he held about the pearl trembled, unable as he was to still them. He swallowed, but found that he could not give sound to his voice.  
  
Airendil saw . . . and he understood. “Try using the main road into the city next time, Fëanorian,” he welcomed him. “It seems as if you have forgotten of my father's hospitality, and yet, I know he would be glad to remind you, if you would but give him the chance to do so.”  
  
“I . . . I would be glad to accept anything the Teleri would see fit to give,” Maedhros said, and knew the truth of the words as he spoke. They were an absolution, a stretch of healing in his bones. In the back of his mind, he thought that he could hear Námo laugh; the amusement of the Lord of Souls as a whisper amongst his thoughts.  
  
“Now,” Airendil waved a hand. “My daughter has made a friend, and a lone journey is never as appealing to the soul as travelling in a group, amongst friends. You are welcome to trek to Olwë's halls with me and mine – it is a short journey, but a day's ride nonetheless, and you may spend it in good company if you would wish.”  
  
And . . . he did wish, he realized then. He truly did.  
  
“It would be my honor to accept the graciousness of your hospitality,” Maedhros inclined his head. He held out his hand – his right hand, and after a moment, Airendil accepted it. His grip was strong in return.  
  
They turned their back on the ocean and the horizon, and the sound of waves carried him back up the dune. This time, the sound of the sea reminded him not of blood, but hope, and it was that hope he let lead him on. This time, he did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nemmírië** : 'Water jewel' in Quenya. Or so says realelvish.net - which is the coolest translation and name website I have yet to stumble across.  
>  **Airendil** : 'Sea-friend' in Quenya. Olwë is mentioned to have at least two sons, but they were never named, so I took his naming upon myself.  
>  **Caracawë** : The Telerin language was said to be similar to Quenya, but not - and yet, Tolkien did not develop that tongue as he did others. I'd imagine that it would have much in common with Sindarin, since the Sindar are of the same line as the Teleri. So, this name is my fumbling attempt to mingle together Quenya and Sindarin to translate Russandol into Telerin. I apologize for my linguistic butchering in advance.
> 
> EDITED: 7/02/17


	30. "given to the winter"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lúthien & Celegorm || Prompt: _Fall_ , Free write
> 
> Touching and expanding on Lúthien's POV in chapter 21. :)

**Fall**  
  
The river Narog gently bubbled as it wound to match the forest path. It's song was a bright, airy refrain against the solemn grey sky above; sweetly whistling as the day rushed onwards towards the night.  
  
For weeks, Lúthien had known nothing but the stone walls of her chambers in the hewn halls beneath the surface if the ground. Darkness and lamplight had been her only companions, and now, to breathe in the fresh air and taste the last days of autumn . . . she could not help the contentment that shown from her eyes then; the nearly there smile that played upon the corner of her mouth.  
  
Her smile drew her companion's eyes more often than not, she knew, though she proudly tilted her head and refused not to let his attention affect her. She did not have to pretend around Celegorm Fëanorian; she did not have be grace and wisdom incarnate in a reflection of her celestial mother and her royal father and for this she knew a queer sort of satisfaction. She did not have to be demure or lovely or tranquil - she could speak her words freely and frankly, and expect his own response as a mirror in reply. He would not shape his words any differently if she was a maiden who welcomed his courtship, she thought, rather than a captive dependent on his mercy. She had no reason to win the affection of this Kinslayer from across the Sea, and so, she did not try. There was a certain amount of freedom in their ebb and flow, but that was something she did not let herself think on longer than need be. For she was not free in all ways.  
  
( _Have you come to let me go?_  every day, this she would first ask upon seeing him, skipping any polite words of greeting or gracious etiquette. _Have you decided to marry me?_ he would reply just the same. Their words were honest between them, at the very least.  
  
_I care not that you love me_ , he would say, and _Love you I never shall_ , she would agree. And there, they understood each other.)  
  
He was an unfortunate companion, but his company was the price of her walking free from the underground halls. There was something harsh about Celegorm, turning him into hard angles and unmovable lines at her side. They walked arm and arm in a gross pantomime of a lover's stroll, and yet, he was like stone beneath her touch, destroying the illusion of familiarity. She rested the fingers of her opposite hand against the back of his own to complete the link, and it was as if she held a brand to his skin for the way he tensed. He rested his unoccupied hand on the hilt of his sword - as if she needed such a warning; such a promise. She knew her place in their dynamic; she knew that she would make it but for steps if she tried to run. And so, she decided on patience; she knew to search for her moment and wait.  
  
Yet, Celegorm ever saw a threat in her - in more ways than one - and so, she was the only one who enjoyed the last breath of warmth upon the autumn air. If he knew solace beneath the eaves of the forest, he did not find it there with her.  
  
When she first met Celegorm, he had been all liquid ease and a grace that reminded her of a wolf in the wood. His white teeth had been quick to flash in a grin, while his eyes had burned with a memory of the light from across the sea. _“Sun-shy,”_ he had teased, easy with good humor before plots and grievances had stretched ill between them. She had blinked against the open light of noontide then, it was true - unused as she was to the unfiltered sunlight, far as she was from the soft twilight of Doriath. “ _Such a strange doe H_ _u_ _a_ _n has brought us, and yet,_ _she is_ _the fairest thing I have yet to snare on my hunts."_ He had bowed low at the waist, and kissed the back of her hand – causing her to flush at the attentions of an impossibly beautiful man. Naïvely, _stupidly_ , she had hoped that he and his brother would be able to help her. She had hoped, and now . . .  
  
Now he was awkward and looming before her, with the ease he displayed in the wild swallowed by the role of warden and suitor both. They ran out of things to say to each other past the routine and the expected after only moments upon the path. She did not search her mind for further conversation, and he did not draw out her as such. She had grown used to the silence since coming to Nargothrond, with she speaking to none but to Huan, and to Beren when she dreamed. She did not dream much as of late, and when she did she was awakened by the song of wolves, singing out from some dark corner of the world.  
  
Lúthien looked to the north, and felt as a certainty that Beren was grappling with desperate fingers for survival, past where she could see. Those who walked tall with him would walk no more from where they were held by a dark being who bowed before an even crueler master. _Finrod_ , she thought with a pang, whom had been dear to her for many years now. Galadriel's brother had touched her mind once to let her know that Beren was safe; that he was still determined as ever to reach Angband, and yet, she had not been able to feel the mind of her kinsman for many days. He was holding himself back from her, _shielding_ her, and she felt a black sense of foreboding at the thought, with her mother's power whispering to her until she could all but _see_ the eerily yellow eyes of the wolves holding them in bondage, she could _feel_ their hot breath and their wet teeth as -  
  
She shivered, though the cold was not yet unbearable. Winter would be upon them within days. Already snowflakes flurried softly on the air, harkening the weather to come. It would be a cold season, she thought; bitter . . . and cruel.  
  
Celegorm noticed her shiver, and stepped closer to her, mistaking her reason for doing so. The motion was thoughtless - second nature to him rather than another step in a courting dance. Ever did the Exiles from Aman give off warmth like a flame from a hearth, and the strange sons of Fëanor burned hotter than any of the Noldor she had yet to meet - even more so than bright Galadriel with her golden light . . . that was, if it was possible for one to compare the burning of a star to the light it gave.  
  
“Are you cold?” Celegorm asked, and for everything between them - rejection and alliances and losses all molting together to darken like a bruise - she knew that he would give her his cloak if she but showed she needed it. A prince born of a prince he would ever be, no matter what else he was now.  
  
So. “No,” she answered, pressing her elbows in against her sides to deny his chivalry. He did not say a word more after that, and neither did she.  
  
Her breath frosted on the air when she sighed. Above them, the sun was setting early, turning the grey clouds aflame in streaks of red and orange. The color of flames caught in the white gold of her companion's hair; it glimmered on his father's crest, proudly etched in silver across the gleaming black metal of his breastplate. He ever wore full armor and ringed mail around her, as if she were a creature scaled and fanged instead of captive and bound. A threat, he considered her to be, and yet . . .  
  
( _Moriquendi_ , he would throw at her like a blow when their words came to crossing – with she once again insisting that her father would offer not one warrior to fight against Morgoth in the name of his Oath, even with she as his bride. Did he not know that he only moved to further deepen the divide? For great was her father's pride when insulted, and Thingol would not cool his wroth in the face of such a slight.

 _Pride he has indeed_ , Celegorm had agreed on her assessment of her father's character - all but snarling at the idea that Thingol had set her bride-price as that which was not his to give. And yet, he would always refute her arguments by saying that Thingol's love for her was greater than even she knew - as if baffled that he would need to say anything more than that. While the Fëanorians were many things, their bonds of innermost family were absolute, and in that manner alone Celegorm's mind was simple. He could not comprehend how Thingol's rage would not only hold, but _intensify_ against him if she decided to accept his suit. It was unthinkable to him that Thingol would hate what his daughter had accepted as her own. He could not understand it.

Even when their words grew heated, he was unable to use her father's name when speaking, she further noticed. Once, and only once, he had spoken of a woman in white, stolen by the shadows of Nan Elmoth and murdered by the hands of one of her father's lords, unchecked by Thingol his king – which explained his hatred of her folk, she thought, but only in part. Taken years ago and later cruelly slain - her choice ripped from her as her mate bound her spirit to his with enchantments and force . . . did he seek vengeance for this Aredhel's plight by forcing such a similar union upon her? She had glimpsed his thoughts once, seeing both regret and old wounds long unhealed as thick scars upon his spirit - with he _hating_ that he had not been able to heal the rift between them before she died at her husband's hands. He had been a coward, shying away from her at Himlad when she sought him out to heal their once ancient friendship, and it had been that which had prompted Aredhel to search the shadowed wood for sport. He had been a coward, offering her horses and supplies after she escaped with her son, unaware that her husband followed in pursuit to Gondolin. Had he aided her further . . . had he asked her to stay . . . had he never turned away from her to begin with . . . _his fault_ , it was all _his fault,_ something small and childlike mourned within him. She doubted that he even realized this about himself, so deep had that whisper been hidden within his mind - tucked in close against his spirit as a seed of deep regret and grief rather than a consciously formed thought.  
  
It mattered not what their spirits chose, he would say whenever she tried to explain that her soul _ached_ for Beren in a way that it never would for him. Duty and vows came before all else, and she would come to accept hers in time – for what could she give the world at Beren's side but for a fae tale of love and devotion? To the contrary, as _his_ wife they could form a union that would pave the way to end Morgoth's reign in the North, uniting the Noldor and the hidden Sindar of Doriath, and that greater aim had to be worth more than the happiness of her heart.)  
  
And yet, her heart loved . . . she did not know what could possibly be greater than that. She did not know how he could resign himself to an eternal marriage without such a love at its core. Was his soul so barren that he could imagine no other fate for himself but for that? Was his spirit so very cold, to resign himself to such a hopeless eternity?  
  
The path began to double back to Nargothrond, Lúthien saw. She had not much longer before she would be returned to her lonely room and her silent waiting for a gap in her captor's guard. Though she wished it not, she felt her heart clench inside of her chest, and she turned towards the north, wishing . . .  
  
Where the river turned, there was a rippling pool of calm water, and on the bank of the still shore, there was a pocket of white summer flowers, still blooming in the face of the cold settling upon the land. They seemed to turn as she passed, opening their tired petals as if she were the sun itself. She looked, though she meant not to, and Celegorm saw as she did.  
  
His next step was a heartbeat slower. He tilted his head, and she suspected, for a quiet moment, that he meant to pick one for her.  
  
(Beren would have, she thought next, trying to think with fondness rather than grief. He would have picked the flowers of white and gold that bloomed where she stepped, bending down on one knee to present his token and accept her gratitude in return in grand and exaggerated words until he drew first a smile from her, and then laughter as he would pull her down for a kiss. The world had smelled like spring and flowers and fresh green grass then, but now the winter was approaching, and she did not have the warmth in her heart to accept what the man before her would try to give.)  
  
But she did not have to fear for  long. The moment passed and they walked onwards, giving the tired little blooms a wide bearth with a stride that was quicker than before. Lúthien picked up her pace, and he followed, matching her without conscious thought. His gloved hand flexed about his sword hilt, as if imagining . . .  
  
(Meeting in a different time. Had the sons of Fëanor simply been descendants of her father's dear friend, come from across the Sea out of curiosity and desire for new lands to explore . . . with no spilled blood between them, would her father have introduced Finwë's grandson with a twinkle of fondness in his eyes? Rather than slurring out _Dark Elf_ in scorn, they would have called her father _Elwë_ in respect and awe, with he being a character now come to life from Finwë's oldest tales. _Celegorm the Fair_ , Thingol would have smiled over how he, out of all his brethren, had Míriel's nearly white hair, reminiscing about old friends long gone as he waved the two young ones on. Perhaps Fëanor's son would have brought her flowers then . . . perhaps, she would have accepted.)  
  
But that thought was as the warmth in the air, falling to the cold of the season and the frost that waited to come with the night. She did not try to summon it again.  
  
“The winter will not let them live much longer,” Celegorm said, more to himself than to her. He looked once over his shoulder, glancing to the flowers as they winked out of view with a turn in the path. “They will fall to the frost before long.”  
  
“Indeed,” she softly agreed. Some queer emotion pressed oddly against her chest, almost like regret. But she did not look back.  
  
Had she looked behind, she would have seen that the flowers bloomed strong and new, as if springtime were upon them, rather than the waiting maw of the cold. Had she stayed, she would have found that they lived until the spring, unwilling to yield to the winter's might.  
  
(And yet, by then, she was already long gone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 7/03/17


	31. "my head is bloodied, but unbowed"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth & Celegorm & Maedhros || Prompt: _Aid, Kinship, Falter_ , Free-write
> 
> The Caranthir and Haleth bonding in the first ficlet is a continuation of chapter 10. Celegorm's state of mind in the second and third ficlet is a part of my Celegorm arc from chapters 21 and 30. It's not necessary to read those, it just helps. :)
> 
> And, I have to take a moment to give a **Warning** about general Kinslaying-esque unpleasantness in the last ficlet, and an even more literal take on kin slaying kin that does not quite mesh with canon as we know it. So, if either do not sound like your cup of tea, I would recommend waiting to read the next one.

**Aid**  
  
They followed the river Gelion north, looking for the Haladin who had taken to the wood and wild places to escape the hand of Morgoth as it fell. Haldad had been thorough in banding his folk together, but there were still those who had preferred to take their chances on their own, living and surviving in scattered pockets away from the whole of their kind. Now, with the Shadow pushed back and the promise of a new beginning fresh upon them, it was time to gather together what remained of their people for the move to Estolad.  
  
For the most part, they were silent companions. Haleth would trust this task to none other, and yet, her people were still few and unprotected. She would not take her portion of fighting men with her for her own safety - not when those she left behind needed their shields more than she. And yet, Caranthir would not hear of her riding out alone. He instead offered his services as her guide and _companion_ (seeing as how her pride had smarted fiercely when he dared to offer his company primarily for her safekeeping), and refused to take no for an answer. Haleth had stormed from the tent when he had dared to push the issue, leaving both he and his men baffled in her wake. Though nearly two months had passed since he first aided her people, he still found himself confounded by the mortal woman on a regular basis. He seemed to constantly be causing offense when he intended none, and nearly every issue - no matter how trifle - was met by a stubbornness and pride that set his teeth on edge - and he was of the House of Fëanor, at that, and well used to dealing with fierce temperaments in all of their shapes and sizes.  
  
Yet, in their time together, he also saw what Haleth had to go through to keep the leadership of her people in her hands - for the Haladin had no lord or king, and they only followed Haldad her father out of respect and trust. She had to hold that same respect and trust in order to carry on in her father's position as chieftain, and for that only he understood why she had to respond so fiercely to even the smallest of slights that challenged that authority . . . and yet, the root of her needing to fight so fervently still baffled him. Woman though she may of been, Haleth nonetheless had the courage and fortitude of any man, and it was laughable to him to learn just how much the Atani judged by one's gender. He would dare these simple sons of men to call Artanis any less for her sex; to call Melian any less powerful; Itarillë any less wise. Nerdanel had been his father's equal in all things - she had been the cool force of a tide to sooth the fervant flame of her husband's spirit, slowing the downward spiral of his madness while still she could. He could not imagine calling her any less capable for Eru having fated her to be born a woman rather than a man.  
  
While he understood Haleth's fierce need to stand on her own two feet, he still did not understand her cause for offense at he offering his aid. These were lands that he himself was ill at ease to travel alone. He would have offered his sword in protection to a man of his own people, let alone a woman born of Men - for while they were equal in many ways, the simple allotments of nature made him stronger than her, and centuries of battle made him equal to a dozen of her fighting men when swords were required. It made _sense_ , simply put - and it was only the logic of his joining her that eventually cooled her pride enough to allow for his company.  
  
Well . . . his logic only cooled her pride in part, that was. Haleth still had not spoken a word to him during the first two days of their journey - instead acting as if she traveled alone and he just so happened to share the path with her. Whenever he tried to rein his mount over to ride besides her, Haleth spurred her horse on faster, communicating her distaste with his presence louder than if she had shouted. Eventually, Caranthir gave up and followed behind her in amusement, as content to follow as she was determined to lead. Unseen by her, he let himself smile, reminded as he was of the Ambarussa when they had protested Nerdanel's attempts to feed them mashed carrots as young children. He did dared not tell her of his observations, and instead kept to the silence she had set – which only seemed to frustrate her more than any return of his words would have done. In some ways, his silence was rote. He had always been an island in the swift current of his family, comfortable building walls with his own company while the house of Fëanor was always chaos and confusion around him. He was immortal, he was patient, and so, he could wait her out.

And so, wait her out he did.  
  
An arched brow and a comment on the weather was awarded to him on their fifth day for his patience. It was the first time she had acknowledged his presence in any way since leaving her people behind. On the sixth day, they found a family living in a hunter's cottage, hiding away from the scourge of black creatures that had fallen upon the land. Haleth called them forth in Haldad's memory, and sent the family south to join the slowly growing host of the Haladin gathering there. Her mood broke that eve – with hope and the tantalizing idea of a life past the siege she'd survived settling into her bones and drawing the smallest of smiles from her mouth.  
  
Though the Haladin had denied a place on his lands – wishing not to dwell in the shadow of the mountains that had treated them so cruelly, and even more ill at ease to call an Elf either  _protector_ or _lord_ \- he still knew a flickering of joy for her happiness. These Men were a hard people, born of hard lives, and he had a grudging respect growing within him for their triumphing over the struggles of their few days.  
  
When they set up camp that night, she sat on the other side of the fire from him instead of immediately turning her back on him and pretending to sleep. The days before, he had always prepared enough for two to eat, and she had ignored him every time in favor of eating from her own dried rations. This time she offered him a portion of her meal, and did not turn away from him as she picked at the last few bites of her supper. She stared at him over the tongues of the flame, her gaze open and frank to observe him. Each time he turned away from her, he would look back to find her still watching – _weighing_ , a part of him could not help but feel – and when he raised a brow in question, she was slow to reply.  
  
Any other woman would have flushed and looked away, embarrassed to have been caught - but she only narrowed her eyes further, refusing to be shamed.  
   
He had very nearly decided to ask her if he had something on his face when, finally, she tilted her head as if coming to a decision. “When my people came over the mountains, we came searching for a light in the west, eager as we were to be far away from the shadow of the Dark Lord, fallen over our birthplace in the east.”  
  
At first, Caranthir did not understand where she was heading with her saying so. In his time knowing her, Haleth had never before wasted her breath on words that were not necessary for the speaking, and so, there was a question hidden in her words. He leaned in closer to the fire, as if by doing so he could help further his comprehension.  
  
“We have since learned that the path across the Sea is closed to us of mortal years, and yet, those of my kind who passed this way first have said that they have seen the light of the West in the eyes of the Elven-kind. I have seen this light in the eyes of the one we call Nóm - who taught the first house of my people your tongue and your ways of lore. I was little more than a child, and my meeting him was short, and yet, the memory of that light was enough for me to take to my final rest. He is family of yours, is he not?”  
  
_Nóm_ , Caranthir thought, recognizing the name the Atani had bestowed upon Finrod. He felt his jaw set with an age old grievance with Arafinwë's children, and yet, he inclined his head. “We are half-cousins,” he answered carefully. “Finrod is the eldest son of my father's youngest half-brother.”  
  
Slowly, Haleth nodded, her eyes focusing on him as if she were solving a riddle. If she noticed the thin timbre of his voice at admitting the relation, she did not comment on it. “I only ask, because . . . your eyes are not the same. At least, not in whole. I still see the light of the West, and yet, it is shadowed - as if someone has placed a cloud over the sun. I understand if you would call my observations forthright, and wish to let them rest - I simply found myself needing to say so, for it has been a thought my mind comes back to often.”  
  
Caranthir looked down at the campfire, as if by doing so he could hide his eyes from her. The difference was slight, he knew – subtle. Haleth would have to be looking closely to notice it at all. He flexed his sword-hand, feeling strangely anxious for a blade in that moment – for movement rather than words. He was unsure of how to answer such an observation without telling a tale going back many years – a tale which he preferred not to think on himself whenever he could help it.  
  
He exhaled slowly, and looked up only when he realized that she was still staring at him, her gaze open, without blinking. He felt a twisting in his gut, admitting then that he had been glad to keep company with one who did not know his name and the whole of his past deeds. She did not _know_ , and the slate between them was still unmarred – well, relatively speaking, of course, for their first meeting had not been the best of first impressions, so to say, but since then . . .  
  
He respected her, he knew. A part of him grudgingly even  _liked_ her, and to see her eyes darken and look away when he told her . . .  
  
. . . she would not hold his gaze so easily then.  
  
Nonetheless, he gathered himself, and pushed on anyway. He never believed in lies, not even when they painted himself in a less than flattering light. It was a trait that had earned him the reputation of being _harsh_ at times, never mind that his frank manner heaped trials on his own shoulders as well as it cut through others to match. It was a double edged sword, his tongue, and now . . .  
  
“This Dark Lord,” he said slowly, answering her in the only way he knew how. “Do you remember Morgoth's visage?”  
  
“My father was not yet born when my people crossed the mountains,” Haleth answered, once again reminding him of the quick exhale of breath that was a mortal's lifespan. “I was a child when my grandfather told me what his eyes had seen firsthand. Shadow the Dark Lord was; wroth and ruin given form. Terrible to look on, but beautiful for it – something more of the earth itself rather than flesh and bone. The only thing cutting through his darkness were the stars – the three stars he wore upon his brow.”  
  
“Stars . . . they would seem such, wouldn't they?” Caranthir mused softly. He felt a tightening in his bones, with his Oath stirring as it swam through his blood with a now familiar toxicity. “They are not stars, not quite, but rather three gems – which we call the Silmarils. They were created by Fëanor, my father, and the Dark Lord spilled the blood of my grandfather in order to steal them and retreat across the Sea to Middle-earth. This happened during the days before the Sun and Moon. My kind were of the West, and forbidden by the Valar to give pursuit - yet that did not stop us. My father swore, and my brothers and I along with him, an Oath to return the Silmarils back to their maker's hands - no matter what fell deed we would have to commit in order to fulfill our vow. We swore by the Everlasting Darkness, taking our Oath to the feet of Eru himself – and thus, he is the only one who can free us from our vow. Yet, Eru's eyes have long been far from this world since it's firmation, and so, our swearing will not be released by any accord but out own.  
   
“In defying the Valar, we became Kinslayers, spilling the blood of the shipbuilders at the Swan Havens and stealing their craft to sail to Middle-earth. Many . . . many died, and yet, it was as if we were not ourselves then. We were but vessels for our Oath, and even the idea of doing otherwise . . . it was like fire over our bones, a burning in our hearts. It was as a physical _pain_ to do anything other than fulfill our vow, and then . . . when the deed was done, and the horror of what we did was before us . . .” He swallowed, gathering himself.  
  
“My eyes are shadowed, reminding me of my Oath and the Darkness that awaits our souls for failure. My father was slain by Morgoth's filth shortly upon reaching this land, and now his Oath is left to his sons to fulfill. For now, our Oath sleeps for so long as the Silmarils are worn upon Morgoth's crown. Our vow will be complete when Morgoth is destroyed, and I am . . . I am _grat_ _e_ _ful_ that the path we must walk is a path that runs parallel with the aid of all . . . with the _good_ of all . . . When those paths again stray from each other . . . it is this fear, more than anything else that darkens my eyes. No matter how I try, it is a dimming that I cannot will away.”  
  
It felt odd to speak such . . . to give a voice to his fears, his innermost thoughts. Fëanor's fourth son he was; as sharp as a blade, and as dark as shadow, others would say. If Maedhros had inherited Fëanor's strength in both mind and hand . . . Maglor his power with words . . . Curufin his penchant for cruelty and the inferno of his artist's mind . . . Celegorm his temper and his way with the wild and open places . . . the Ambarussa his strange understanding of the makeup and marrow of their world, then Caranthir bore Fëanor's sharp lines – the jagged pieces that cut into his own skin as well as others; insecurities and doubts hiding deep beneath bone and the wicked lines of temperament he used to hide those parts of himself away. Normally, he would do his best to keep those points covered, and yet, he felt an edge dull as he gave his words to her - dull as a stone being smoothed down by the current of a swift river above. He _wanted_ to tell her all that weighed upon his mind, he understood then; he  _wanted_ to share this part of himself with her . . . and that realization was a curious truth to his thoughts indeed.  
  
“I fear that a day will come when our Oath no longer coincides with the good of these lands,” he found the words spilling out, where earlier he would have done anything to keep them silent. “I fear . . .”  
  
_Blood on the water. Ships burning on the horizon. Sea salt and pine ash and the_ _metallic_ _taste of blood all mingling together and overpowering_ _to my_ _senses_ . . . Yes, he feared this more than anything else - more than the Everlasting Darkness, even, with its black arms waiting to embrace him every time he closed is eyes; confident and sure as it was of his fall, confident and _expectant_ as it was of his failure.  
  
A long moment passed, and the only sound between them was the cheerful crackling of the fire in its place. Somewhere past them, an owl sang in the wood, welcoming the moon to the sky as it took its hunt, and still he waited as the sound echoed and faded away.  
  
He finally found the courage to look up, half expecting to see Haleth turned away and unable to meet his gaze. He looked, and yet, she still stared at him without blinking. The flames caught in the grey-blue of her eyes, granting them an almost unearthly light as they found his own.  
  
“Some would say that right and wrong are black and white,” Haleth said after a moment. Strangely, her mortal perspective – her _child's wisdom_ – drew him short of breath as he waited for her verdict. A prince of the Eldar he was, and yet, he was anxious for her words – he was _nervous_ with expectation for her judgment. A small part of him felt as if he were a boy before his father's gaze again, waiting, hoping – _please do not find me wanting_. “And yet . . . ” she shaped her words carefully, giving each one weight and shape before she spoke them, “all too often life is the grey between the white and the black. If such a creation was left of my father's hands – a creation stolen by a foul being, at the cost of the blood of my kin, at that . . . there would then be no force in this world that would be able to stop me from seizing it back. Yes . . . I can understand your oath in the smallest of ways.”  
  
She exhaled, the motion too faint to be a sigh. She seemed older to him in that moment, weary in a way he could not understand. He waited for her to find her speech again.  
  
“And yet . . . I would also have you remember that life is made of choices. You made a choice to swear this vow, and now you can choose how you go about fulfilling it. You can recover your father's Silmarils while still keeping your honor and your pride intact. You are stronger than such mindless slaughter, that much I know true of you.”  
  
He looked, and saw as she smiled. It was the smallest of things, but it was something he did not know that he searched for until he found it. His mouth opened and closed as he swallowed his words away. Relief was then an odd, weightless feeling about his shoulders; it was the same breathless, boneless feeling that came at the end of a battle when he still stood where others had fallen; it was the same feeling that came when he felt at the bonds upon his soul, feeling each part of his thinly stretched family still alive and surviving in this land of shadow and swords. He made a fist of his hands, but found that he could not hide his relief away.  
  
“Do not look at me like that,” Haleth said after a moment, her cheeks flushing. “I offer you no absolution - I am simply not one to judge what I cannot understand. This world is violent and dark – and what your kind would call _kinslaying_ is all too common amongst my own people, especially east of the mountains. Men have never hesitated from turning upon each other when murder would more easily grant to them either vengeance or gain. All I know now, and will continue to know, is that you have helped my people without hope of reward or expectation of repayment in return. In those deeds there has been honor and nobleness . . . kindness, even. Whatever your past deeds are, it is what you do _now_  that I choose to see . . . what I will always continue to see.”  
  
He was silent in the wake of her words. Caranthir could not think of what to say in reply – and that, more than anything else, seemed to amuse her. There was satisfaction in the thin line her mouth made, ghosting over her smile.  
  
“Now get some sleep, Elf,” she said, effectively closing their conversation as she leaned back against her own bedroll. She laid on her back, folding her arms beneath her head so that she could stare up at the stars. “The ride is long tomorrow, and I will not wish to stop when you tire.”  
  
“As my lady commands,” Caranthir gave after a heartbeat, amused. He glanced at her, trying to unravel an mystery yet beyond his reach as he looked to where the firelight fought with the dark of the night across her skin. Haleth did not close her eyes, and yet, she seemed as content with the silence as he.  
  
After a moment, he too laid back, and let his eyes find the stars.

  
.

. 

 **Kinship**  
  
It was the first time the seven had been together as one in centuries.  
  
Caranthir had been restless since reaching Himring, and in that restlessness he had reached the council chamber first. He took the seat furthest from the entrance, leaning back so that he could watch the room as a whole. He did not have long to wait before his brothers filed into the room – first Maedhros with his eyes like sunlight glinting off steel, all but burning for the events they had gathered to discuss. Maglor was only steps behind their first, ever in Maedhros' shadow for the closeness of their years.  Maglor took his seat while Maedhros remained standing, humming absently and tapping out a rhythm against the maps that covered the table before him. His eyes were soft with a gentleness that all too many confused with the weakness of blind kindness, and yet, the smile he gave upon seeing him was warm in shape. He was as a hearth fire in a family full of stars, and always had Caranthir been grateful for his affection and guidance.  
   
The twins entered next with silent steps. As ever, their motions were synchronized between them as they pulled their chairs out and took their seats at exactly the same time; their movements eerily fluid with their seamless execution. Caranthir looked, and saw where the Ambarussa blinked as one, where they tilted their heads in the same way and folded their hands to match, each one in perfect unison with the other. Even since fleeing Thargelion to join the twins at Amon Ereb, Caranthir still found himself struggling to tell Amrod from Amras - and he had known them since their infancy. His confusion amused his brothers, at least, for which he was grateful. The twins kept to themselves, for the most part - taking counsel and companionship with none but the other whenever they could, and Caranthir was normally able to stumble his way through a conversation until one - or both - would take pity on him and tell him which was whom.  
   
Amrod - or was it Amras? - met his gaze then and raised a brow, as if guessing his thoughts. Caranthir held the odd brightness of his eyes, trying to remember if it was Amras who had that freckle so close to the right side of his nose, or was it -  
  
 - but his musings were cut short by the last of his brothers arriving. Celegorm and Curufin came in together, as was their wont. Though Caranthir was born fourth, and Curufin fifth, Celegorm found more in common with their younger brother than with he. All those years ago, Caranthir had been pushed aside as a playmate for their younger sibling, and their bonds had continued to strengthen and grow as such as the centuries passed. As ever, Celegorm wore a hunting look upon his face, and Curufin bore a sharpness about his features that thrived on the promise of violence in the maps and charts of troops before him. The years had turned Curufin's eyes to blades, and the hollow lines of his face were pointed with hardness and foul temper. Curufin had always been mercurial in emotion, but now he seemed to cling to that one high rather than waver between those feelings hot and cold, much as their sire had. He reminded Caranthir all too much of Fëanor in his last days - even in his face and bearing, he was a nearly exact copy of their father - and it was not a remembrance Caranthir cared much to reflect on when he could avoid it. He kept his expression carefully blank when Curufin glanced his way, as if guessing the thoughts that turned upon the surface of his mind. His smile, when he gave it, was brittle.  
  
Celegorm was alone, Caranthir realized after a heartbeat. He was so used to seeing Huan in his brother's shadow that it took him a moment to realize what was missing. The wolfhound had been Celegorm's dearest companion since Caranthir himself was a yoith, and to see Huan absent (dead for aiding another, Eru that thought  _hurt_ ) when he was as much a part of their family as any of they . . .  
  
Caranthir looked, and saw where his brother's eyes were more grey than green, darkened as if by a veil of smoke. His white gold braids were hastily plaited, and the healthily tanned shade of his skin was pale . . . pallid and drawn. His eyes sat as bruises on his face, sunken and shadowed. He did not look . . . _right_ to Caranthir's eyes, all but rippling within his own skin as he sat down at the table and forced himself to stillness.  
  
“Clearly, we are here to plan our assault,” Celegorm was the first one to speak once their greetings and polite well wishes were concluded. All eyes turned to him, but no one immediately spoke in reply. “The Witch's ring of enchantment around Doriath presents a challenge, and yet -”  
  
“ - we are here to plan our attack, but not in the way you think,” Maedhros interrupted from where he was still standing at the head of the table. Where Celegorm spoke as an arrow striking its target, Maedhros' voice was a quiet strength, like a wind sounding through the mountain ways. Ever since Thangorodrim, Maedhros had been thinner and harsher than Caranthir remembered from Aman. Gone was the gentle confidant and proud tutor of many, and in his place was a quiet simmer of a flame and an almost calculating, predatory caution. Even though many years had passed, Caranthir could still see the telling silver of his scars in the torchlight, with each whispering a tale of wounds survived rather than torments suffered. From his youngest days, Caranthir had known nothing but a solemn awe and a deep respect for his oldest brother, and he felt a wrongness in that awe being challenged now, even by one of their own brethren.  
  
 . . . for he looked, and saw that Celegorm was seething in reply to Maedhros' words. Caranthir sat up straighter, feeling as the air turned charged, like the sky before lightning struck .  
  
“What . . . do you mean?” Celegorm enunciated his words carefully. Each syllable was lined with teeth.  
  
“I mean as I said,” Maedhros did not blink in the face of Celegorm's temper. “Lúthien has given to these lands a gift greater than she may ever know – she has given these people _hope_. She has shown to all that Morgoth is not as invincible as he would have us believe. He has shown weakness, and we will move now, _strike now_ , while that weakness is at its most vulnerable point.”  
  
“An all out attack on Morgoth?” Curufin surmised, his tone dubious. He raised a sharply arched brow to ask, “Why would we do so, when to take the Silmaril from Lúthien's hands, we need only go through two mortal lives? They are weak right now, they are _defenseless -_ ”  
  
“ - I have written to Thingol, expressing our claim to the jewel and _requesting_ that he relinquish his right,” Maedhros interrupted, his voice thin. “And for my doing so, Thingol has replied to me - calling me despicable and ungracious for even daring to mention our claim. He accuses me of having no honor or fellow feeling in the face of what his daughter had to go through in order to win the Silmaril. And, as a result, Thingol will give not of men to aid our cause. By striking at Morgoth, not only shall we fight for the good of these lands, but we shall also reclaim two of the Silmarils rather than one. Perhaps, when our day is won and our forces are proven victorious, we can again ask Thingol to see reason, and present our case to a softened heart.”  
  
“So that is it, then? You would simply _bow_ before this Moriquendi king, rather than fight for what is rightfully ours?” Curufin scorned.  
  
“A son of Fëanor would _b_ _eg_ for Thingol's favor like a dog beneath the table, looking for scraps?” Celegorm carried on his brother's words. “A son of Fëanor would _kneel_ , when instead, he should answer in force, and show this Dark Elf who truly holds the power in these lands - ”  
  
“ - my _bowing_ , my _begging,_ is what you have pushed me to do,” Maedhros snapped in reply, his voice a low, dangerous sound from his mouth. Caranthir could feel his presence rise to fill the air around them - a smothering heat of spirit that reminded him of the flames waiting just beneath the crust of the earth, terrible and vast in it's intensity. “You have dealt dishonorably with Lúthien Thingoliel with your actions at Nargothrond, and for that we all must pay the price for your arrogance and stupidity.”  
  
“Arrogance . . . _s_ _tupidity_ , you would call it? At least I actively sought for a way to force Thingol's cooperation with our Oath,” Celegorm returned, his every word trembling with a barely suppressed rage. The small chamber seemed even smaller then, with Fëanor's flame filling the enclosed space and consuming those within it. “With Doriath behind us, I would not question your decision to take the fight to Morgoth's door. At least I acted as a _prince_ , and sought to fix to me my equal with Lúthien as my bride. Instead you would _b_ _ow_ before Thingol, just as you _bowed_ to Nolofinwë, casting aside our father's crown as if it were rubbish you could not wait to be rid of . . . ”  
  
“Tell me, brother,” Curufin turned to Maedhros, his words silky with an oiled cruelty. In anger, his voice was a match for Fëanor's rage, filling the conversation with his ghost. “Does Fingon look on this plan of yours with pride? He must look on you with _adoration_  for the gracious and generous ways of your heart. Who do you serve - your kindred in both Oath and blood, or _him_?”  
  
Maedhros' face fixed darkly. At his side, Maglor stood and reached out to place a gentle hand on his arm. Caranthir could feel his cool presence rise alongside the miasma of wrath and flame, and knew that Maglor tried to cool the tempers in the room as Nerdanel so often had before him. Even so, his eyes too were hard with disapproval as he stared down his younger brothers.  
  
Silent until then, Caranthir leaned forward and turned his own words in defense of Maedhros. He said, “You speak of honor, Celegorm, and yet, Atar would have known shame for the way his sons dealt with Lúthien. Force and trickery . . . guile and blows? Do you not have charms enough to woo your maid with honey, instead of having to resort to such vinegar? To have to take Beren from the world by _force_ when your own courtship proved to be for naught . . . even Fëanor would have acknowledged you as no sons of his for your actions.”  
  
Celegorm surged to his feet, and the room turned hot around him. His eyes were as embers, bright within the dark shade of his face. His hand came to rest upon the blade at his belt, the threat in his every tense muscle clearer than any spoken word.  
  
Curufin stood as well, nearly liquid in his motions. He placed a hand on his brother's arm, holding him back as he said, “Yes, Moryo, we all know of your taste for _Engwar_ maids. It is a shame that Beren was not of like persuasion, else you could have done us quite the favor indeed.”  
  
“ _Maid_ _en,_ not maids _,"_ Caranthir returned, seeing no reason to hide his feeling so. He rose slowly, placing no hurry in his movements as he unstrapped his dagger from his side and placed it on the table before him. He looked Celegorm in the eye, not blinking at the wildfire he saw raging within. “I loved _one_ of the Atani, it is true, and for the blinking of an eye I was blessed to have her love in return. You, however, have only regret and black deeds to your heart, and for that I pity you. And it is that pity that would have me say that you look for your fight in the wrong place. Doriath is not your enemy; Morgoth is, and there is wisdom in Maitimo's words.”  
  
“Wisdom?” Celegorm barked out a hoarse sound - what once had been a laugh. He unsheathed his dagger, a threat gleaming in the naked steel. “In what manner? Maitimo has nothing but a soft heart; he is craven to the black truth of what _must be done._ He is taken in all too easily by Findekáno's _romanticized_ notions of valiance and _chivalry_. He is not worthy of our father's name, or capable to lead us in -”  
  
Faster than Caranthir could follow, Maedhros surged forward. He shoved Celegorm back until the broad line of his shoulders hit the wall with a bone rattling thud. Celegorm struggled against his hold, but he was not able to keep the other from pinning his arms to his side and forcing him to stillness. Flipping the blade from his brother's hand, Maedhros turned Celegorm's own dagger on him, pressing it down in warning against his neck when he continued to struggle against him.  
  
Curufin turned to aid his brother, but Maglor held him back, he too having stepped forward faster than Caranthir would have thought him capable of moving. Maglor looked on Curufin in warning, preventing him from moving forward. Curufin glared darkly, but remained still.  
  
Maedhros was the only one of their brothers who matched Celegorm in height. Celegorm was broader, more heavily muscled, but even he could not move underneath the lean iron of Maedhros' grasp. Maedhros' face was a pale mask of fey anger in that moment, all sharp teeth flashing beneath thin lips as his eyes burned with a fire that was all Fëanor rekindled and Angband survived. He pressed the blade down as Celegorm continued to fight his hold, turning the edge until it took a thin line of red as its token.  
  
“Question my right to lead again, _Tyelkormo_ , and I will send you to join Atar in Mandos' halls -  do not think me incapable of _that_.” Celegorm spluttered, but Maedhros was unyielding. The blade bit deeper into his skin. “I gave my crown to our uncle for the sake of peace, and peace  _only._ Without that peace we would not be able to even _begin_ contemplating an assault against Morgoth now. You are a fool indeed if you think it _weakness_ on my part to cast the kingship aside, rather than cold rationale and _strategy_ for the longer road to come. And yet, you have never been able to see the bigger picture, else your doings at Nargothrond would have gone _much_ differently indeed, would they have not? Perhaps, it would be better for all if you kept solely to your hunts, and left the playing of this game to those better equipped to win it. ”  
  
Celegorm's eyes narrowed, all defiance and spitting sparks as he glared. A burning red light seemed to cling to Maedhros then, with his fëa swimming close to the surface of his skin, summoned first by the force of his anger. Only then did Celegorm seem to still, realizing the precarious position he had landed himself in. “Challenge me again, and I will not hesitate to grant to you the kinslaying that you are all too eager to stain your hands with,” Maedhros growled the threat into Celegorm's ear, satisfied with his silence in reply. “Consider that _my_ oath and solemn vow, _brother_.”  
  
Maedhros pressed the flat of the blade down once more, only drawing away when the other at last struggled for breath. He shoved Celegorm away, letting him breathe, and the hunter stumbled only a step before catching himself. He coughed, trying to regain his breath as he rubbed at the raw skin of his neck.  
  
“Fine then,” Celegorm spat his words, glaring at his brother with mulish eyes. “We will do it your way. We will play your _game_ , we will fight when Fingon says _fight_ , but know that when our banner falls for victory or defeat, I will march on Doriath with a sword if the Silmaril is not released to our hands. And you will then follow me, _brother_ , for your Oath and Fëanor's blood within you will allow you to do nothing else. Remember the words that you too spoke? 'Neither law, nor _love_ ,'” he hissed that one word out, the single syllable an awful sound from his mouth, “'nor league of swords will keep the Silmarils from Fëanáro and Fëanáro's kin.' This you too vowed, and this you too are sworn to uphold.”  
  
“You need not remind me of my oaths,” Maedhros said, and for the first, his words sounded weary, “for they haunt me . . . more than you would know or think.”  
  
“On that day then,” Celegorm vowed, showing his teeth. “On that day . . . Doriath shall fall.”  
  
“And yet, until that day,” the hardness once again returned to Maedhros' voice, “you will heed me on this: not a hand will be raised to Lúthien or her kin in violence until either her father sees reason, or she finds her fate in mortal death - upon which we will address this matter again. Do I make myself clear, Tyelkormo?”  
  
A moment passed. For a heartbeat, Caranthir thought that Celegorm would challenge Maedhros again. And yet . . . “Perfectly,” at long last, the one word rumbled from Celegorm's chest. He gave a shallow, mocking bow to his first before straightening. The green was completely gone from his eyes, Caranthir saw. He did not think the colour would ever return again.  
  
“Excellent,” Maedhros drew the single word out in a hiss. He took his seat after a long moment, only breaking Celegorm's gaze to turn to the maps that had been laid out earlier. “If that is now settled, this is what Findekáno and I have planned, and decided . . .”

 

 

.

.

  
**Falter**  
  
Of course, they could only resist for so long before their Oath turned them towards Doriath.

Their assault on the Morgoth failed, and the battle's end showed so many of their number claimed by death that they were beyond counting or grief. With their leaguer broken, Morgoth now walked freely through the lands and their own people were hunted and scattered, lost to the wild and desolate places as they did anything and everything to distract themselves from the vow they had so long ago sworn.  
  
It was as those first days with their Oath all over again, Caranthir thought. The tugging on their bones had not been this strong since they had struggled to find their way from Aman. Their Oath was as a whip's lash upon a thrall, striking their souls and driving them ever forward. The Darkness all but _laughed_ at them with every day they spent in defiance of fulfilling their vow. It became as an obsession in their hearts, filling them more than blood and tender tissue, more than any bright light of the soul. It was a burning that licked at their hearts and filled their spirits, until, at long last . . .  
  
After many days, grey with her years and satisfied with her life, Lúthien laid down in the ever-sleep of Men, and her Silmaril fell to the keeping of her son. This time, when Celegorm spoke his angry words, and Curufin gave his own arguments in support, Maedhros had no choice but to agree. The righteous fire he had fueled himself on since recovering from Angband had bled out in the wake of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. His veins were now dry of feeling, and his heart was even more barren still. The bright lines and fight of spirit in their first's eyes had faded to ash and ember. The scarred flesh he had built up over his jagged lines was drawn away again with Fingon's death, and Maedhros had no care to hide his bones away. He was curt and cutting, his eyes pale with apathy as they prepared their host to march on Doriath - an easy siege now with Melian departed to Valinor and the Doriathrim weakened by the attack of the Naugrim just those few decades prior. Dior was a young king, a foolish king, and his meager attempts at protecting his people would amount to naught.  
  
_A_ _r_ _rogant_ _child_ , Caranthir could not help but think in weary disappointment. For trying to keep true to the haughty power of Thingol's crown and the sweeping epic of Beren and Lúthien's trials and tragedies, Dior would give up the Silmaril not, and his people would suffer for it.  
  
Caranthir thought of the blood that would soon be his to spill, and felt his stomach turn with a hunger that was more than a thirst of flesh. It was a hunger that had taken him once before, and yet, sating that beast then had soothed him not, nor had it drawn their Oath to a fulfillment.  
  
. . . and this time? Would this time be different? _How_ could this time be any different, even if they were successful in their quest? He wondered, but could not be sure.  
  
Caranthir was not able to sleep the night before, remembering only Alqualondë and the slaughter there. He thought of the massacre on the quays; he remembered the red on the waves and the _screams_. They had tried truly to aid this land whilst fulfilling their Oath, disguising their need for vengeance and petty ownership with righteousness, and the Valar had doomed their actions for their core. For every lie they had told themselves, they had a dozen truths revealed, and now, he did not much care for the reflection the mirror returned.  
  
_She would be ashamed_ _of you_ , he could not help but think as he strapped his armor on. For every hard and unyielding line she herself had born, Haleth would have been ashamed of the choices he made today.  
  
. . . the care and opinion of one mortal woman, centuries dead now, weighed upon him more than he had ever cared for his father's opinion, even. It was almost enough to turn the suffocating shroud of his Oath from his shoulders. It was enough to make him question, at the very least, where he had so blindly followed before.  
  
While marching to Doriath, Maglor sought him out at the head of their host, touching his shoulder in an empty encouragement. Where Maedhros was all blank, deadened eyes, and Celegorm and Curufin were all but sparking to the touch for the fight to come, Maglor was quiet and withdrawn. His eyes held the same disillusionment that Caranthir bore, and yet he would not turn away from the words that bound them with such a fell force. He wondered if Maglor thought of his wife, back beyond the sea. He wondered if his brother remembered Nyarissë in Aman, and knew shame for the dishonor he brought to her – with his name and deeds now made her own through their spirit's bond.  
  
And yet . . . such thoughts did not matter for long. They fell upon the twilit wood in the cold of a Yuletide storm, stealing through the trees with their weeping veils of white and then forcing their way into the stone halls of Menegroth to take what was theirs by force.  
  
Caranthir looked on the melee as it started with sickened eyes. Up was down and down was up as swords flashed and the blood of kindred was spilled once again. He did not know which was worse: the rolling of loathing and self-hatred in his stomach or the burning in his bones ever urging him forward. His Oath pushed him, all but pulling at his stride and forcing his sword-arm to action. He felt his vow rise within him – _neither law, nor love, nor league of swords_ – and yet, he could not . . .  
  
 . . . he could not draw his sword.  
  
At his side, his siblings waded into the wave of Sindarin soldiers. He looked, but saw where Celegorm had little care for the ranks trying to stop him. He moved with deadly assurance and hardly constrained rage through the halls, his destination already clear in mind – a destination which Caranthir understood with a sudden coldness of clarity that broke upon him like a wave upon the shore.  
  
_The children_ , he understood then. _Dior's_ children. _Lúthien's_ grandchildren . . . young ones with Beren's strong brow and Lúthien's twilit eyes . . . their's was a heritage that Celegorm considered to be a theft even greater than the Silmarils. _Children . . . grandchildren_ . . . a heritage of heirs and familial bonds that Celegorm considered unfairly denied to him. He . . .  
  
 . . . his brother was not in his right mind, Caranthir finally admitted the truth, even if only to himself. Celegorm had not been himself for much too long, and now . . . He saw the rush of madness in his brother's eyes as he followed him through the halls. He saw the same cruel light that had taken Fëanor _burn_ him, he saw it _consume_ , and he -  
  
_No_ , he thought when he heard the children scream – discovered and torn from their hiding place. There was a fey gleam in Celegorm's eyes, with murder and violence sparking from his skin as his men laughed along with him, and then -  
  
Caranthir did not think, he only reacted. He rushed at his brother, knocking the stronger elf away from the young ones with a ferocity that surprised even himself. He had a brief moment of seeing the twins' _human_ shaped eyes turn wide with fear in their _elvish_ faces, and that combination struck him like a lance, greater than the Oath screaming through his veins, demanding that he fulfill his vow of tongue, that he _finish_ it.  
  
For the first, a son of Fëanor turned his back on the Oath of his father. He accepted the Darkness as payment in return, he held his arms open to the Void and thought only: _let it come_. He was willing to pay for the consequences of his words and actions. And he was willing to pay that price alone.  
  
He had only a moment in which Celegorm was surprised, stunned by the attack from his own blood, and Caranthir had only that heartbeat in which to unsheathe his dagger and sink it in deep between the lacings of the other's armor, holding it in and _twisting_ , ignoring the bonds of kith and kin between them in order to do what had to be done. Beyond him, the children ran, and he hoped that they would find a safe place amidst the confusion and the violence. He hoped, and yet . . .  
  
He looked, and saw shock warring with the pain in his brother's eyes. But nothing escaped Celegorm's mouth but for a gurgling of blood . . . a broken exhale of air. It was one of the last he had left within him, now.  
  
Caranthir caught Celegorm as he slumped forward, still holding the dagger in tight. Even so, he soothed the other, brushing his hair from his face and leaning in to hold him as close as he could. He rocked him as if he were a small child, comforting him as pain bloomed in his eyes: agony and acceptance and rage mingling all at once . . . and a childish fear and denial beneath it all, twisting inside of Caranthir's heart with an overwhelming pain to match.  
  
“I could not let you damn yourself this way,” he whispered into the other's ear. “Please forgive me, Tyelko, but I could not . . .”  
  
Celegorm blinked. Caranthir felt his hands make fists in his sleeves - whether to push him away, or to cling to him for support, he did not know.  
  
“Shh, brother,” he whispered. “Everything will be over soon.”  
  
_You have a choice_ , he could still hear _her_  voice whisper in his ear. Soft and strong, she remained a cherished memory, even after these long years past. _You chose to swear your Oath, and you alone can choose how to fulfill it_ _with honor and pride_ _._ He remembered her words, and he wondered, hoping that when he gave his last breath . . . would he, perhaps . . .  
   
He held his brother, uncaring as the hall filled with Sindarin soldiers. Dior himself rushed into his sons' rooms, his eyes wild with a parent's fear and the bloodlust that came with the heat of battle. Caranthir did not rise to the violence in the Elven-king's gaze. His sword remained untouched at his side, his bow at rest upon his back. He simply patted down his brother's hair, and held him closer. He felt a moment of regret for those he would leave behind – knowing that Maedhros would see his sheathed weapons, and _know_ . . . Maglor would have one more verse to add to his song in lament, he thought. For the first, Caranthir could give him something noble to include, at least - something that was more than death and pain, something that was _honor_ _able_ , something that was _penance_.  
  
Celegorm's fingers clutched at his arms. The grey of his eyes was glazed, far away. Caranthir wondered if the Darkness truly waited for them, or something else. Perhaps, Eru would see, and Námo would look down on them and know pity . . .  
  
“Moryo?” finally, Celegorm forced the two syllables out. His teeth were wet and red when he spoke, his voice a pained exhale of sound. The name was one that Caranthir had not heard in much too long, _Moryo_ , _so dark and strange_ , his brothers would laugh and tease – in Aman, there had been humor to the name. It had been an endearment. But in Endórë where all was stained with shadow and blood . . .

“Moryo . . . it is dark now . . . I cannot see you.”

  
 . . . perhaps, it was more fitting an appellation than first they had known.  
  
“Close your eyes, brother,” Caranthir whispered into the other's hair. “It will all be over soon, and I . . . I will follow you.”  
  
He exhaled, closing his eyes as he caught sight of Dior with his sword raised high . . . and accepted the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Nóm** : The name Men gave to Finrod, meaning 'wisdom'.  
>  **Moryo** : Short for Morifinwë, meaning 'Dark Finwë', Caranthir's father-name.
> 
>  **Engwar** : Disrespectful term for mankind, meaning 'sickly ones' in Quenya.
> 
>  **Caranthir and Celegorm** : Is not canon, I know, but I have this massive character arch for Caranthir built up in my head (that we will get to, eventually), and he turning kinslayer again at Doriath does not mesh with that arch, so, here we are. I still have Dior killing Celegorm (technically), and Celegorm's servants are now given a motive for leaving Dior's twins out in the wild to die. Perhaps Curufin was right behind them, and died avenging his brothers - I will have to figure that out with a later vignette. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> EDITED: 7/05/17


	32. "once and future"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Maglor & Elrond & Elros || Prompt: _Past, Present, Future_ , 400 word drabbles

**Past**  
  
There was nothing quite like a child's curiosity when it came to unravelling things he would rather not reveal.

“So . . ." Elros tried once again, testing his thinly wrought control, "was it bitten off, like Beren's?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Was it crushed?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I know, it was a sword accident!” Elros chirped brightly. “That is why Naneth said we could not yet have swords, and -”  
  
“ - _no,_ ” Maedhros' patience gave. “It was not a sword accident. And it is considered rude to ask when one has not offered to tell you the story to begin with, child.”  
  
Elros was silent for a heartbeat. And then: “ . . . was it frostbite?”  
  
“Maglor!” Maedhros finally snapped, turning to his brother. “Please, take the children away before I show Eärendil's son what _truly_ happened to my hand.”  
  
Elros, far from being cowed by his anger, _giggled_. Maedhros bristled, disturbed by his inability to intimidate the Perelda.  
  
Maglor raised a brow (at _him_ , Maedhros realized indignantly), while Elrond shook his head at his brother's antics. Elros flushed sheepishly at his twin's look, and yet, "Are you not curious?” he still defended.  
  
For a moment, Elrond did not answer. His eyes were pale, far away, as they flickered from his brother to Maedhros, (and it was not concern Maedhros felt at the look, it _was not_ ).  
  
“His hand was cut off,” Elrond finally revealed, his voice echoing oddly. “ . . . one dear to him did so . . . desperate to preserve his soul alive, no matter the cost to his body.”  
  
Startled, Maglor glanced at him, looking for his reaction. Maedhros blinked, blindsided by memories. He remembered the smoke of Thangorodrim and the heavy gusts of wind from the Eagle's wings . . . he remembered begging to find an end to his torments at a loved one's hands, and instead feeling a blinding pain at his wrist and then _nothing . . ._ He remembered little of the journey to Hithlum besides Fingon's desperate voice begging him to stay with him, and the feel of the sky as it turned clear and sweet around him.  
  
And now . . .  
  
“Now it burns,” Elrond concluded softly, his eyes resting on the hand he had left. Maedhros made a fist, eerily reminded of Artanis in her girlhood, when her Sight would take her in uncontrollable fits before she learned mastery over her visions.  
  
“It does not burn,” Maedhros whispered. His voice was uncertain in his mouth.  
  
Sadly, Elrond smiled. “Not yet,” he shook his head. “Not yet.”

 

.

.  
  
**Present**  
  
Elros blinked at a jolt of awareness from his twin. Startled, he instantly snapped awake from a deep sleep, and yet, when he searched for a threat, he only saw Elrond staring pensively up at the stars.  
  
“What is it?” Elros rose to join the other by the window, plopping down gracelessly where Elrond sat with a unyielding tension in his bones. The restless spin of his brother's spirit pulled at his own, like the moon tugging on the tide. Something had happened, he knew, and he swallowed, wary of what his twin would reveal to him.  
  
“Our parents. . .” Elrond finally answered, the words falling from his mouth in awkward syllables. “ . . . they made the journey West. They stand before the Valar now. Adar speaks to Manwë himself on behalf of Ennor as a whole.”  
  
The words settled between his ribs like a knife, taking their wound. “How do you know?” Elros whispered, pained. All of their hopes of _when their parents would return_ suddenly seemed like silly, childish things.  
  
Elrond looked away from him. His throat worked, as if he had to try more than once to form his words. “I just . . . know,” he answered lamely. A dream it was then, Elros diagnosed distantly, his thoughts far away.  
  
“Then . . . they are not coming back for us . . . are they?” Elros asked, the words fumbling from his tongue. He hated how _small_ he sounded in that moment, with his eyes burning and his throat tight.  
  
“I do not know,” Elrond whispered, but Elros heard his hesitation. _Ever playing the healer, are you?_ he chided through their bond. _You cannot protect me from what pains you as well._  
  
A moment passed, and Elrond's answer ghosted across his mind, unable as he was to form the words aloud. _They are not coming back for us._  
  
Elros set his jaw as tears threatened. Stubbornly he told himself that he did not care if Eärendil and Elwing ever returned. He _did not_. They did not need their parents - not any more; not when they had each other.  
  
Responding to his distress, he felt the touch of Elrond's fëa against his own – his soul just as pained as his. In reply, he reached over to take his brother's hand, needing the tangibility of touch even more than the comfort of spirits. _All I need is you_ , Elros breathed, his heart sore within his chest.  
  
A heartbeat, and then Elrond squeezed his hand in return. _And I you._

 

 

.

.  
  
  
**Future**  
  
“He speaks nonsense, that is all,” Maedhros paced angrily before his brother, as restless as an animal caged and fanged in that moment. “Sinking islands at the rage of the Valar? A mountain of fire belching beneath a demon's throne? It is the stuff of dreams, Káno, surely you must see that?”  
  
“I think it is more than mere dreams,” Maglor insisted. “It is prophetic, as plain as the day is bright. And if it is indeed the Sight that he bears, we . . . we cannot teach him here. You know this.”  
  
He watched as his words struck as blows, and yet, “So you would have us hand them over, just like that?” Maedhros scorned in return. “I know! We can march up to Gil-galad and say: 'Here are your cousins back. Now, if you would be so gracious as to give us a headstart before you stain your hands with a _fourth kinslaying -'_ ”  
  
“ - be not a fool,” Maglor retorted, interrupting. “Do you think that I have not thought of that? Here, I can teach them lore and the High-tongue, and you can teach them the sword. But . . . I know too few songs of the healer's art, and we know _nothing_ of ship's craft -”  
  
“- except for how to burn them,” Maedhros scathed.  
  
Maglor's look was withering. “Elros is touched by Ulmo himself, as Eärendil and Tuor both were before him. And the Sight - ”  
  
“ - Artanis has managed well enough with her visions,” Maedhros insisted stubbornly.  
  
“With Indis' help in her girlhood, and then _Melian_ _herself_ as a teacher later on,” Maglor snapped in reply. “You've seen . . . you've seen what these visions can do to the untrained. And when there is the blood of Men to also consider . . .”  
  
Finally, Maedhros was drawn short, true concern flickering across his eyes as he thought of the few seers known amongst Mankind – their minds torn apart by the things not meant for them to see. For a moment, Maglor held his breath, hoping that he had finally broken through to his brother. _His brother_ , who would not even have blinked before doing the right thing by a child just mere centuries ago . . .  
  
“I cannot,” Maedhros finally said, his voice tugging weary on his ears. He rubbed at his brow with his one hand, his Oath once more fighting with his sense of goodness for ownership of his soul. “They are our key should Eärendil return, and I cannot . . .”  
  
Maglor sighed, disappointment dimming his eyes. “Brother . . . how many more need fall before a few unthinking words of tongue are to be satisfied?”  
  
When Maedhros spoke, his voice was cutting – and final. “As many as need be,” he swore, and another chain wound about an Oath unbreakable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Perelda** : 'Half-elven', in Quenya  
>  **Ennor** : Sindarin term for 'Middle-earth'


	33. "so beats the heart"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anairë/Fingolfin || Prompt: _Heart_ , Free-write

**Heart**  
  
The gardens of Lórien were all the hues of a never ending dusk and the teasing dance of silver mists. Weeping willows swayed upon the shores of Lake Lorellin; the dark blue waters exuded peace and calm as they sloshed gently against the confines of their cradle. Beyond the willow trees grew tall, silver-blue evergreens and elegant cedar trees, each drowsily exuding their rich fragrance as they danced to the far off sound of singing voices within Irmo's halls. Anairë breathed, and inhaled the delicate scent of the silver night-flowers and the more spicy note of the red poppies that glowed in the ever lingering mist. Just above her, she could hear the haunting song of the nightingales as they filled the half-light with their melody. The waves whispered against the shore, hypnotic and murmuring as they played in time with the pulse of her heartbeat. She could feel her soul throb in this place of spirits and new life.  
  
For all of its beauty and healing, Lórien was a realm that Anairë did not often visit. She had seen the realm of Irmo once before as a child, so long ago. She had still been small behind her mother's skirts then, timid and hiding, even as she was encouraged to dip her hand in the lake by one of the silvery Maiar who walked the gardens like specters in the mist. She had returned as a woman grown to experience that same peace again after the Darkening of Valinor – leaving Tirion only after her good-brother was secure upon the throne and her people were once again building for the future with zeal and hope in their hearts. Anairë had not found what she had been looking for then. Peace had been beyond her reach, searching as she was for a way to fill the emptiness of her home and heart with the enchanted garden's healing songs. While many said that the gardens gave them a weightlessness of spirit and a heartfelt sense of peace . . . she had not found such a balm for her soul then. How could she, when she was _alone_  . . . alone and . . .  
  
Anairë breathed in deep, and let the breath out slow.  
  
Now she was summoned to Lórien by Irmo himself. She stood where the grove of willow trees made a natural curtain to Irmo's halls. Within the Vala's keeping, there was an old soul just returned to life anew; his lungs given breath and a his heart a beat once more. Before, she had hidden the part of her fëa that was his in a far off corner of her spirit, unable to bear the gaping chasm it had became after his fall. And yet, that small ember was now fanned into being once more, growing to again take root and flower, deep within her soul. What had once been empty was now filling with a familiar light, spilling over the edges of her spirit to warm what had been cold for far too long.  
  
Filled . . . _full_ . . . for centuries, such a thing had been nothing more than a hazy theory, a half formed idea in the deep places of her mind. It had been something so painfully lovely that she had feared shattering the thought if she all but whispered it too loudly. Slowly, the lands of Aman would fill with the Twice-born, and she had resigned herself to patiently waiting for her turn to welcome her family to life anew. Waiting . . . _waiting_ she had been for so long, ever resigned and dutiful . . . _waiting_ for what felt like an eternity, ageless though she was.  
  
Arafinwë and Eärwen had both been called forth by Námo to witness the rebirth of their son – for Findaráto had been the first of the Twice-born welcomed back to Valinor, and the Lord of Souls would have those who gave him life first there to witness his gift of life anew. Anairë was glad that she had not been called to Mandos' grey halls to see her husband's soul called forth and crafted into being once more before her eyes. It wasn't so much the process of rebirth that unsettled her, but to see those black curtains, and know that somewhere beyond, each of her children laid still in death . . . children she had brought into the world; children she had held, and raised, and _loved_ . . . Anairë had exhausted her share of strength over the centuries, and she would not have been strong enough to stand so close, but still so far away, even to see the one she loved as her other half brought to life again.  
  
She had known jealousy, at first, as shameful as it was for the blessing given to her friend. She tried to swallow it away for Eärwen's sake - for she was happy for her good-sister, truly she was. And yet, she had lost a son . . . a daughter . . . a _husband_ . . . long before Findaráto had drawn his last breath. While Arafinwë and Eärwen deserved every blessing allotted to them, she had still looked on, and she had known _envy_. Envy . . . and yearning.  
  
She understood why, of course. She understood Námo's decision in a logical way - for Findaráto gave his life for another, for a mortal man and his hopeless love. There was beauty in that sacrifice, she knew, and such beauty deserved to be rewarded. Ever was Anairë patient, and she could wait. Ever was she dutiful, whether it be to her father, her husband, or the Valar themselves. She would question them not, and hold her silent yearning in close to her heart. She would be faithful, and give her hope a fresh breath with each passing day.  
   
Now, at long last, her hope was realized and real before her. She stood upon the shores of the lake, her posture straight and her shoulders squared to match the ground beneath her. Her robes were pristine; pressed to fall about her without a wrinkle, and cut to fit her just so. The pale blue color emphasized her ivory white skin and night black hair, while the front of the dress was elegantly embroidered with the wine red and blue-violet colors her husband had favored in life. The pile of braids atop her head was perfectly pinned in place, with each coil and artful plait oiled until they gleamed; not a hair dared to move from its place. Her face was a serene mask, elegant and grave in countenance as befit a high lady -  a _princess -_  of the Noldor. She would let herself be seen as nothing else, especially within the dwelling of a Vala and his wife. She would not let anything take that dignity from her, not even . . .  
  
Her pulse raced beneath her skin, betraying the calm she was so desperately trying to hold on to and grasp as her own. She could feel her pulse throb against her wrists; she could feel as her heart thundered within her chest, as if looking for an escape. She tried to breathe in deep, but she could not get her heartbeat to slow, no matter how she tried.  
  
Frustrated, Anairë clasped her hands together. The long fabric draped down from her sleeves to hide the way they trembled, and, for that, she was grateful.  
  
She inhaled, but no matter how deep a breath she took, her breath still came quick and eager from her lungs. She was as giddy as a child with her excitement, as eager as she was for an old grief to scar and heal over. A part of her was surprised by the fervency of her emotions, while another part of her knew better – had always known better. While many in Tirion and beyond called her marriage to her husband a marriage of convenience, a match made for political ties and bonds, she knew as well as _he_ that such was not so, and for so long, that had been all that had mattered.  
  
The rumors were true, in the smallest of ways. She and Nolofinwë were not the nearly tangible flame that had followed Fëanáro and Nerdanel – for everything that Fëanáro touched burned, and his love was no exception. The restless tongues and immortal eyes of her kind would find no tale to whisper for their public dealings with each other, for ill or for well, and that was the way she preferred it. Their marriage was not even the warm and gentle grace that followed Arafinwë and Eärwen like sunlight on the water. They were something softly spun together – _cold_ , Fëanáro had thrown at his brother more than once – and yet, she could imagine no better compliment to her soul than he.  
  
“A strong match,” her father had praised, his hand cool upon her cheek, when he learned that she had accepted the prince's proposal. Anairë had only nodded in reply then, agreeing. For, really, that was how they had started, and most assumed that to be the whole of their relationship.  
  
She had allowed Nolofinwë's courtship, not out of a great and soul binding attraction formed at first sight – as so many of their kind did -  but rather, because it was what her father wanted. Her father had been Finwë's closest adviser and dearest friend since the days of the Awakening, and it was the wish of both to bind their children together in marriage if their hearts were so inclined. Anairë was nothing if not a dutiful daughter, and she had followed her father's wishes. In those days, she had simply been grateful that her father had turned from Finwë's heir as a possibility for her hand to his secondborn son instead, wisely foreseeing where she would have been smothered beneath Fëanáro's flame.  
  
She had not protested the choice of her father – for it had not been hard to love Nolofinwë, but rather, natural and easy. He was Fëanáro's beauty and wisdom without his ferocity and his untamable edges. He was polite and courteous, even if he kept so much of himself hidden deep beneath the surface. _Like she did_ , Anairë had thought at the time. He matched her spirit in shape, she was pleasently surprised to discover over time. _They fit_ , was the easiest way for her to explain their soul's bond. Even though Fëanáro had often scathed at his brother in scorn for his cool marriage and unpassionate bride, she knew the shape of her relationship with her husband, and knew that their easy affection suited both of them. Fëanáro did not _know_ , and she had never deemed him worthy of explaining otherwise.  
  
_Now,_ _child_ , Irmo had a soft, lulling voice that was all starlight on the water and a warm wind through the swaying trees. The Valar were spirit creatures, created of Ilúvatar's thoughts, and yet they found their voices in order to speak to the children of Arda with words to match their own. He whispered into her mind, soft and gentle, _He comes to you._  
  
_Move slowly_ , Námo spoke alongside his brother, sounding like heartbeats and rumbling drums to her inner ear. _Souls who died violent deaths tend to carry those memories with them into their waking days. He has recovered strength enough, but the rest of his_ _a_ _wakening will have to happen away from my Halls. The spirit is only so much itself as it belongs to others, and his has always found its home in you._  
  
Anairë nodded, bowing her head in respect to the Fëanturi as they spoke. Their words touched something deep inside of her, humbling her with both their notice and the proof of her husband's affection for her. In reply, she wrung hherhands together, wrinkling the heavy material of her sleeves. She bit her lip – a habit that her mother had forced away from her as a young woman, now returned in force as she gave into the urge she had to pace in small circles on the shore. Another ungenteel habit, she knew, and yet . . .

  
She took in a deep breath, telling herself that she needed to be composed. She would be graceful; she would be dignified and calm. She was Anairë, born of Araton and Lissië, a princess of the Noldor, the wife and then mother to the King in Exile, and good-sister to the High-king in Aman, and she would act with the dignity inherent to her name and title.  
  
And yet, all of her carefully thought out speeches and perfectly poised greetings fell from her like rain over the canopy of a tree as her husband appeared though a parting in the willows. She blinked, taking in the once familiar sight of him – the tall and strong frame, the long black hair and the eyes that were more silver than grey. Her own eyes were thirsty then, parched and famished as they lingered on each part of his face in turn - from the almost confused furrow of his brow to the chiseled line of his jaw and the full shape of his mouth. He was dressed in the simple grey robes that all in Lórien wore; no circlet adorned his brow, and he was anointed by no finery . . . and yet, he looked more beautiful to her then than he had on the day when they had wed, a millennia ago. He looked at her, and recognition sparked deep within his eyes - lightening them from within, until -  
  
 - she tried to say his name, but her words were stuck in her throat. She could not give her voice a sound. All of her careful preparations were for naught - for her husband was now whole and _real_ before her, blinking as if the light was too bright, and stepping towards her as if just remembering how to walk. Anairë could not help it - she sucked in a strangled noise, a sob of joy and grief, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound had come from her. The strange sound came again – and yes, it _was_ her, she realized, mortification coloring her cheeks red.

A lady did not run – her gown was not made for such movement, at that. And yet, it took only one step, then two, and _three_ before she was able to throw her arms about her husband's shoulders for the first time in centuries. Walking would have doubled that time, she reasoned, and she would not have been able to bear those extra seconds away from him.  
  
It took him a moment to return her embrace, but return it he did. His arms wrapped around her, almost hesitantly, before tightening with a near painfully desperation. His hands traced the shape of her spine, the dip of her waist, beneath the formal robes she wore. Even through so many layers his touch _burned_ , and she felt happiness and relief and desire flood through her veins as they had not in nearly an age of the world.

He was warm, so _very_ warm, she thought. Always did the sons of Finwë give off heat like a star, and yet, she had not realized just how much so until he was gone. In the days after his leaving, she had filled skins with hot water to warm the sheets next to her, placing them within the pillows that still bore his scent in a childish need to keep him close to her. And yet, it had not been enough. The emptiness of her spirit once she had felt him go beyond where she could follow him was even worse, a chill of heart and soul that she could never completely warm away – until now.  
  
If she worried about his coolness upon seeing her - for it had been she who had refused to follow him, and he had been driven forth by duty, unable to stay in Aman when their people would only have Fëanáro and his madness to turn to upon crossing the Sea – those worries disappeared like the rain as it was claimed by the greedy earth. She could not remember why she had felt such a worry to begin with as she buried her head against his chest, feeling his lungs rise and fall with his every breath. Breath . . .  _life . . ._  her husband was _alive.  
  
_ She was crying, Anairë realized then - ugly, hiccupping sounds that she was ashamed to release from her mouth. She tried to remember, but could not recall ever letting go of her grief in such a way. The death of the Trees brought only anger to her heart and a solemn sorrow to her brow. Her husband's leaving drew nothing more than a stern face and a pressed line from her mouth as she took her sorrow and held it close to her heart. With each child claimed by Námo in death, she had gathered together her grief and pressed it in alongside her bones until it became the very thing keeping her upright. Even when she felt Nolofinwë's death, she had held her pain and anger deep inside, unwilling as she was to let it fell her like a tree in a storm. Her _grief_ , her _missing_ . . . it was always with her, but she never allowed it to consume her. She was stronger than that, she had been determined to prove. She would not weep over what she could not change; instead she stood strong and saw to what had to be done. And yet . . .  
  
Perhaps . . . perhaps she had simply not thought about what she had lost until now. In that moment, she seemed to relive his death anew. She remembered feeling the part of her soul that was his leap in fear and determination. She had been able to see though his eyes – see the mountain of malice and black might that was Melkor as he swung his war-hammer, and brought his mailed boot _down_ . . . Quickly, she pushed that thought away, feeling where Nolofinwë flinched at the memory. She remembered Námo's words, and found them to be true in that moment. Her spirit was open and raw before her husband as it had not been since their bond was new and they were each just learning to navigate the halls of each others minds. _Their bond_. For too long had that piece of her fëa been empty and wanting, and now . . .  
  
Her face was red and swollen, and her eyes burned as if set aflame. No doubt she was a sight to look on, she thought. This was not the poised and lovely wife she wanted him to return to, and yet, she could not seem to keep the sounds of her grief in. Her grief . . .  
  
. . . and her joy. She laughed with a bubbling, giddy relief, and soon enough, she could not tell which of her tears were from what emotion.  
  
His hands rose to tangle in her hair as he followed her thoughts with his own, sinking into her braids and cradling the back of her head as he moved his thumbs in soothing circles where her jaw met the bottom of her ears. Strange, she thought then, that it was _he_ offering _her_ comfort, when -  
  
He had died, the knowledge hit her like a blow, fully setting in for the first. He had _died_ , and she . . .  
  
“You foolish, _foolish_ man,” Anairë cried into his shoulder when she at last found her words. “What were you thinking, charging forth like that? Where was your _sense_ , where was your _control_?”  
  
For it was never that he felt less than Fëanáro, so much as he knew how to hide the flame of his spirit away. He knew how to keep it hidden and deep, letting it shine through as a bright wisdom and guiding light. Fëanáro both brought pride and shame to Finwë's name in equal measures, and always, her husband had endeavored to spare his father grief at his expense. How could he do any differently, with Fëanáro as such a brother? He had been calm, he had been poised, the perfect prince and the perfect son while inside of him a fire to match _burned_.  
  
It had been something that she had empathized with when first they had courted. It was something that she had eventually loved him for. And, when his anger and his grief at last ran over, and he challenged Melkor to a one on one match, facing the mightiest of the Valar in an unprecedented duel . . . it had been the suppression of _centuries_ at last failing him, the fire of his spirit breaking free and consuming him in its wake.  
  
“I could no longer stand aside and watch,” Nolofinwë answered against the top of her hair. His voice gained strength with every syllable, as if remembering how to give shape to words once more. _His voice_ , low and deep and sending shivers up and down her spine as she heard him speak for the first time in centuries. “The Sudden Flame . . . to see our siege broken . . . two of Arafinwë's sons fell in the fires from Angband, and Findaráto would not have escaped with his life if he was not aided by Barahir the mortal man. Over a hundred thousand of our people fell . . . along with nearly ten thousand of the sons of Men . . . and they fell underneath _my_  watch . . . _my_ command. So many centuries of work, of _toiling_ , were swept away in a blink of an eye . . . it was not to be borne. I saw no end to our fight, and in that moment . . . I felt strong enough to take on Melkor alone, or, at the very least, give something to inspire our broken people once again. I was not of the flesh during that battle, but of _light_ , it seemed, and . . .”  
  
He sighed against her hair; his hold on her tightened. He clung to her, both remembering and trying to forget all at once. “It was a moment of madness,” he admitted wryly. “One that seems to run in the family – or so I am told.”  
  
She gave an unpleasant snort, intending first for laughter, yet failing. “And yet,” she let herself return ruefully. “The songs say that you took seven wounds from the Vala, as fallen in might as he was. There is something to be said for that.”  
  
“They were seven wounds that made the whole of the battle worth it,” Nolofinwë sighed. “And yet, they are seven wounds I would not like to think on for some time again.”  
  
He and her both, she thought. She could hold him no tighter than she already did, and so she traced the tips of her fingers over the thin material of his robe, drawing her touch up the path of his spine to the base of his neck. His hair was unbraided and unadorned, falling in a heavy curtain of spilled ink over his shoulders. The strands were as cool and smooth as silk, at odds with the heat of his skin. She let out a contented sigh at the contrast of textures, relearned once more after so many years apart.  
  
“Our children?” she asked next. She had to try twice to force the two words out, suddenly speaking as if around a stone. He would have seen them within the Halls, she thought. He would have seen the light of their souls, and _known_ . . . “Do they . . .?” She could not finish her sentence, but it did not matter. He understood.  
  
“They will come to Námo when they are ready to return to life anew,” he answered her. He had to work to find his speech, much as she did. “Arakáno has learned much amongst the Maiar of Námo, and he has found a purpose in the Halls that he long searched for in life. Irissë will not leave until her son may also rise to life anew – and her son's soul is slow in healing, bitter with many wounds. Lómion many not ever forgive himself – or find forgiveness for his sins in the time that Arda has, and yet, she is determined to wait for him. Turukáno will not be long behind me – he found his wife again in death, and together they will return to life in order to welcome Itarillë and her mortal husband to these shores – yes,” he rumbled in amusement at her surprise. “That is a tale long in telling, and one that I will share with you later.”  
  
Anairë shook her head, her curiosity piqued. Tales of her granddaughter's odd choices in love had reached Aman from Ulmo's mouth, and yet, there was so much she did not know. She hesitated for a moment before asking, “And . . . Findekáno? How fares he?” Her eldest son, she allowed his memory to surface in her mind with pain and fondness both. Her eldest son, who was ever such a light and strength in life . . . she swallowed, trying to align the child she had held and helped walk for the first time with the man who had been so eager to see the world away from their golden and _safe_ shores . . . She could not fathom him without breath and life; she could not imagine him as an incorporeal soul, waiting to walk again.   
  
Nolofinwë hesitated. His answer pained him, she understood before he even spoke. She braced herself, preparing for the worst. “Findekáno . . . he waits, as he ever does. He will continue to wait until he is joined by _him_. And then . . . only the future will tell what Námo intends.”  
  
_For him_ , she thought, her brow darkening. As a young woman she had known pity for Fëanáro and the source of his rage, and yet, that pity had hardened into an indignant ire and fierce urge to protect her husband from Fëanáro's mad jealousies and petty resentment. It was a jealousy and resentment that her husband shared, for he was as much Finwë's son as Fëanáro was, and the time and effort that Finwë put into soothing the son of his first wife often put his second family to the wayside. Though Nolofinwë pretended not to be affected, she knew his mind and thoughts as well as her own, and the same insecurities and fears that plagued Fëanáro were shared by his brother. They cut him to the bone just the same; only their handling of that pain was different.  
  
And now, for Fëanáro's eldest to take what was dearest to her . . . When her son was still a child, she had encouraged the friendship between Maitimo and Findekáno, even over her husband's reservations. Maitimo had been more Nerdanel's son than Fëanáro's then, holding wisdom and a sage tongue over the fervor of his father's fire. She had such hopes then . . . hopes that had since come to naught. Even beyond death, Fëanáro was still taking from her family, and in that moment, she _hated_ him for it.  
  
Once, she had thought their friendship to be the bridge that would sooth the bonds between their fathers - for her husband's sake and peace of soul more than anything else . . . for he did love his brother, loved him dearly and desperately despite all else, and his resentment was as much wounded pride as it was true dislike. Míriel had  _left_ her son, had _chosen_ death, but Nolofinwë was ready and eager to love the blood of his blood - and even now he still did not understand why that love was forsaken and cast aside. She sighed, feeling only a black disappointment and bitter resignation rise within her for her son's choice. Ever were their fates bound, even now, and there was little she could do.  
  
“Each soul in Námo's keeping needs to find their peace . . . their peace and their reason to return to life anew,” Nolofinwë said, following her thoughts as they spun together with the ease of long intimacy. “Findekáno will find his reason, and we will have eternity to wait for him to do so.”  
  
_Eternity_ . . . she was patient . . . she was dutiful, she reminded herself, and this was just one more hurdle to leap before having her family whole and together again. For this too, she could wait, and find the strength to endure. “And you?” she asked, hating the way her jaw still trembled with her words. “What reason did you have to return?”  
  
“I had that which I should never have left behind to begin with,” he answered, and she felt warmth rise between them, filling their bond with an old, easy love. She grounded herself against the feeling; she let it fill her until she felt almost buoyant with it, her cage of flesh the only thing keeping her spirit from soaring.  
  
They said no more than that – they did not need to, not with their spirits whole and holding each other once more. The memory of Melkor and the continuing toils of Endórë were in the background now, and though his body still tensed with remembered pains, the memories no longer consumed him. Instead he focused on the texture of her hair, the shape of her body. The top of her head fit just underneath his chin, as if they were made to hold each other so. He was warm, _so very warm_ , in her arms once more, filling her with a peace and contentment to match the haunting song of the nightingales and the silver mist dancing all around them.  
  
She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his chest, indulging in the urge she had to feel the rise and fall of his lungs. She could feel his heartbeat; slow and steady beneath her cheek, alive and beating once more. _Alive_ . . . and for the first time since his leaving, she felt as if she herself lived once more.  
  
Anairë exhaled a shaky breath, and listened to her husband breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Findaráto** : Finrod  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Arakáno** : Argon  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Lómion** : Maeglin  
>  **Endórë** : Middle-earth


	34. "should we teach eyes to blink, bones to disappear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Student_ , Free-write
> 
> This is a direct continuation to my Caranthir/Haleth plot arc in chapters 10 and 31. While not necessary to read those first, it would help. :)

**Student**  
  
It was just approaching the evening hour. Anor had tipped from her high cradle in the sky, casting her rich light over the black glass of Lake Helevorn below as she steered towards the night. The sunlight danced as it was reflected, creating dazzling patters of gold upon the lazy waves. On the eastern shore of the lake, Caranthir sat with his guest where great brown-grey formations of rock rose from the water to form its shore and the beginnings of the Blue Mountains. Even with their slightly elevated altitude, the summer day had been hot and humid, and both he and his human companion were enjoying their brief respite from the heat. There was a gentle breeze coming off of the lake, teasing the grass and playing with their hair; singing a sweet song as it echoed through the cliffs just beyond.  
  
They had just concluded a month's time of searching the lands of Thargelion for the rest of Haleth's people. During their travels, they had found many of her folk in the woods and wild places, and each of the straggling Haladin were welcomed to join the ever growing host of their people in the south. Their search had followed the river Gelion to its source at the lake, and the settlement of his people that was built there, coincidentally. Upon reaching the great falls where the river was birthed, Caranthir had invited her to travel just a bit further north, to stay and find her rest before embarking on her journey home. She had accepted the offer of his hospitality, and since then, three days had passed – three days in which he was able to learn about Haleth the woman rather than Haleth the Chieftess, and he was delighting in the knowing those days of peace had afforded him.  
  
During their travels, to pass the long hours on horseback and all too restless nights when neither of them could sleep, Haleth taught to him the language of her people. It was a simple and rather primitive tongue, but one with a strong foundation. In the centuries to come, as it adopted more Elven patterns and phrases - and Mankind themselves evolved and grew, it would be a strong language indeed. And yet, for now, it was easy to learn - very easy when compared to how Haleth struggled with his own native Quenya. The High-tongue was laden and long, a language that even the Sindarin struggled to master before speaking it fluently. And yet, all of their languages had but a single origin with the One, and Haleth's determination was ten times more than her clumsy tongue. She was learning – slowly, but faster than first he would have thought.  
   
Alongside a mentor's pride for her progress, he also knew a secret sort of thrill for teaching her his forbidden language; one that he tried to hide away more often than not, but with little success. And yet, he telling her of Thingol's ban on the language of his childhood was the very thing that had first prompted Haleth's curiosity in learning. _Which language do you dream in?_  she had asked when he said that they communicated well enough in Sindarin, surprising him with her moment of romantic thinking – at odds with the logical and pragmatic woman he had known her to be. And now, here they were.  
  
“ _Atani_ ,” she rolled the word off of her tongue, leaning forward on the rock as if she were advancing on a foe. “ _Atani_ , which means 'second people' . . . and _F_ _í_ _rimar_ , which means 'mortal' - ”  
  
“ - The first 'i' is as the 'ea' in _fear_ , not the 'i' as in _fire_ ,” Caranthir corrected. “ _F_ _í_ -ri-mar,” he stressed the syllables for her. Haleth nodded, storing what he said away with determined eyes.

“I am clumsy with your tongue, but I am learning,” she said - more to herself than to him. While she grimaced, it was a strong look, stubbornly set on her face.  
   
“And you are learning quickly, at that,” he agreed.  
  
Haleth gave a snort of laughter. “Do you mock me?” she asked.  
  
“Indeed, I would not dare,” he raised his hands in mock surrender. “You are learning as fast as it is possible for you to learn – and that is faster than first I would have thought. It is a credit to you, my lady.”  
  
She did not quite know how to respond to that, Caranthir noticed, pleased. Better was Haleth with strong words, or even those cross and cutting. She did not know what to do with softness, and even the simplest of compliments often had her looking away from him, her cheeks flushing pink. It was a reaction he enjoyed provoking, if he was honest with himself - it amused him nearly much as stroking the embers of her temper did, a task of which he was proving to be equally adept.  
  
“Now,” he waved his hand, allowing her a retreat. “Again.”  
  
“ _Atani_ , which means 'second people',” she dropped the word from her tongue as she would give a blow, “and _Fí_ -ri-mar, which means 'mortal'.” Her eyes flashed triumphantly when he inclined his head in approval at her pronunciation. “Those are your names for Men.”  
  
“The two most primarily used, at least,” he gave in a rueful voice. “I am sure that you have noticed that it is an elvish tendency to give many names to things – and yet, it passes the years for us.”  
  
“I was not going to say so if you were not,” she said, amused by his observation. “ _Engwar_ is a term I hear often, as well. What does that name translate to?”  
  
He blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. He felt as his face settled into a dark look, even as he asked, “Where have you heard that?”  
   
Haleth easily spied the change in his mood. She gave pause then, reevaluating her words. “Here and there,” she answered carefully. “I have met many of your folk since coming here, and I could not tell you which or whom.”  
  
His jaw set at her answer. He looked out to the lake, swallowing back the heat that had risen within him, snapping up to rise with his breath. His fëa itched just beneath the surface of his skin, and he had to take a moment to compose himself in reply - unsure as to why he was suddenly so incensed on her behalf. It was a term even he had used before aiding the Haladin, and he did not . . .  
  
“What does it mean?” Haleth asked, more slowly than before. Her voice was soft, as if she spoke around a bear within his winter-sleep, waiting for but an ill placed sound to awaken.     
   
Caranthir swallowed away the flame of his father's temper, and exhaled slowly. “Engwar means 'sickly ones',” he answered in a calm voice. “It is used as a slur.”  
  
He watched her reaction, expecting to see offense bloom on her features; but she only snorted in amusement. “Forgive me, Lord-elf, but your kind must spend more time with the _Engwar_ in order to learn how to better phrase their insults.” Bemusement colored her voice as she shook her head. “We have worse terms for our fellow men in our own tongue, at that.”  
  
“And yet, you are a guest here,” he returned, not sharing her easy humor. “An insult to you is an insult to me. You are a leader of your people, worthy of the same respect my people would give to a Noldor lord. I will not see you slighted underneath my roof.”  
  
She shrugged. “I have thick skin – I have to, out of necessity. Long ago I learned to bear through worse names than _sickly._ ” She set her mouth in a thin line, looking away from him. He watched, and wondered what memory took her as her eyes focused once more. She gathered herself. “I am not slighted in the least," she assured him, "and you throwing a fit on my behalf will do nothing more than enforce the image of a _child_ , dependent on the help of others, that your people already hold of me.”  
  
Caranthir still squared his jaw, but he saw the wisdom in her words. He laid his anger aside – for the moment, at least.  
  
Haleth looked back to him, and the blue of her eyes was alight as with deep thought. Her eyes narrowed in consideration, looking at him as if weighing him on a scale.  
  
“ _Caranthir_ ,” she said his name slowly, slurring out the syllables with a careful tongue. Her voice was warmer, deeper, than most of the elven women he knew, and he blinked for a moment, taken aback by the way the timbre seemed to settle deep within him, next to his bones. “Yours is a Sindarin name, is it not?”  
  
. . . ah.  
  
He swallowed, wary of answering her when he knew the question she would next ask. “Yes, it is,” he answered though, unable to say anything else.  
  
“And yet, Sindarin is not your mother-tongue,” she reasoned out loud. “And so, I have to ask – what was your name before? What were you called in the land of your birth?”  
  
Her eyes were almost eager, he thought. There was true curiosity there, and yet, he hesitated. There was a story to share with every name, and as much as he had told her as of late, he did not think . . .  
  
Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer by a shadow coming over their place on the shore – cast by a page, just arrived from the path that led back to the fortress. Caranthir raised a brow at the young elf, who bowed in apology for his interruption before saying, “My lord, the delegation from Ered Luin has arrived earlier than expected.”  
  
“Rathsvith?” Caranthir asked, surprised. “They were not to be here until after the new moon.” He glanced at the sky, even though the sun still hid Ithil's light.  
  
“The Naugrim said that they were met with clear roads, which hurried their travels along,” the page explained. “Rathsvith apologizes for any inconvenience he has caused you, and says that he waits upon your graciousness as a host.”  
  
Caranthir snorted. “So the dwarf says.” He sighed, running a hand though his hair. There were a hundred and one ways to insult a Dwarf, and playing a poor host – no matter how unexpected – was highest upon that list. He did not need one more thing going wrong with these talks – not after the strained note their last time meeting had ended on,  
  
He was, he thought in annoyance, being tested. Rathsvith was becoming wily in his elder years, Caranthir thought. Wily indeed.  
  
“Tell him I come forthwith,” Caranthir gave the only answer he could. The page bowed in reply, and turned back the way he had came.  
  
Caranthir glanced to Haleth, and saw where she had watched the exchange with curious eyes.  
  
“Part of my settlement here is not just for my place in the leaguer,” Caranthir explained as he got to his feet. He climbed down the rocks to the path below with ease, but when he turned to give Haleth a hand, she had already taken another path down, needing not of his help. He raised a brow as she passed him by. “Here I protect the dwarf-roads from Ered Luin. This far North, Morgoth's creatures try to be clever by sneaking into Beleriand through the mountain ways, and the Naugrim's trade suffers for it. So, both Belegost and Nogrod look to us for supplies, food, and protection, while we gain both gold and gifts of arms enough to fund and build our defenses and armies all across the north – along with the promise of men to fight if ever this stalemate shall escalate into outright war. Dwarves are highly territorial, and fearsome to behold when protecting their own - Maedhros is counting upon their support when the time comes.”  
  
Haleth nodded as he spoke, listening carefully to his every word. She had a mind made for the moving of pieces on a board, and her insights grew wise and wiser still the longer she learned to bear her mantle of leadership. Upon first arriving at the fortress, she had been wide eyed and amazed to see the maps that graced the walls and tables of his council-rooms - shocked, even, to see the scope and breadth of the land her people her people had stumbled into. He had promised to have her copies made in the future, and already his scribes were hard at work reproducing them. For a mind of so few years, she was all too eager to learn all she could in the time she had, and there was something . . . refreshing about the insatiable minds of Men . . . something refreshing indeed.  
  
“ _Naugrim_ , I heard you say?” Haleth puzzled out the Sindarin term. “ _Stunted ones_?”  
  
“Yes,” he answered. “Dwarves, as you would call them.”  
  
Her brow furrowed as they turned to head back down the path. To the east of the lake were the first peaks of the Blue Mountains, the tallest of which was Renir - where they had built their fortress into the mountainside. “ _Naugrim_ ,” she shaped the name. “ . . . do the Dwarves mind you calling them _stunted_?”  
  
“They have never told me otherwise,” he answered, unsure of where she was going with her words. “And it is the truth, at that.”  
  
She raised a brow, coming to a halt on the path so as to treat him with a piercing glance. “And yet, _Engwar_ is an insult to your ears?”  
  
He stopped and looked back at her, curious as to how he had unwittingly sparked her ire. “I do not understand what you are trying to say,” he admitted frankly.  
  
“ _Engwar_ is as true a name as _Naugrim_ ,” she reasoned, holding first one, and then two hands out and level with each other - as if she held each name in her palms, and was weighing them. “I am as prone to sickness and death as a Dwarf is small in stature – and both are through design of the One himself. How is one name an insult while the other is not?”  
  
He blinked at her words, caught. He . . . he had never thought about it like that before. He felt his face flush at her words, snared as he was.  
  
“I do not mean to give counsel,” she amended upon seeing his look. She started down the path again, waiting until he came to walk at her side to pick up her pace. “I simply wanted to give you something to think on.”  
  
Caranthir was silent for a moment, his thoughts swimming as they continued on towards the fortress. It was just _different_ , he wanted to protest. The Naugrim were coarse; ill-tempered and ill-mannered, unlovely to the eye and unfortunately necessary for the Noldor's hold on the mountains. Mankind was . . .  
  
Did not he too think the sons of Men weak and sickly before aiding Haleth and her people? Plain of face and wanting for strength in arms, multiplying like insects and dying much the same - taken all too easily by too many toils to name. Had not his opinions of mortal-kind been both arrogant and far from the truth?  
  
Still . . . this was _different_ , he wanted to protest. It was not the same, and yet . . .  
  
“ _Gonnhirrim_ , they are also called,” he said at long last, forcing the little used title from his tongue as one would expunge an unpleasant taste. “Or, the Dwarves call themselves _Khazad_ in their own tongue.”  
  
“Masters of stone,” Haleth translated the Sindarin with a pleased nod of her head. “Yes, I find that much more agreeable.”  
  
“And they are, at that,” he had to give, his every word grudging from his tongue. “I almost wish that my father had survived the Battle under Stars to meet their kind - he would have been fascinated by their ways. For all of the unlovliness of their appearance and the crudeness of their manners, they are truly Aulë's children, and blessed in their craft and works of hand.”  
  
A moment passed as she appraised his words. “Do not speak as if it pains you so,” she said wryly, amusement sparking in her eyes – as if he was a young boy, earning her fondness for the childish shape of his thoughts.  
  
He set his jaw, suddenly frustrated. “We have a mutually benefiting relationship, and we leave it at that. The Dwarves have as little love for my kind as I do for theirs, and we do not hide behind false pretenses.”  
  
Her brow rose higher on her face, but she did not comment on his annoyance. Instead, a small, soft smile touched her mouth – a young woman's smile, sparkling and full of joy, so much so that he nearly missed a stride upon seeing it.  
  
“I am excited to meet their kind,” she said in a small voice, as if hesitant to make the admittance. She seemed younger to him then, nearly child-like in her excitement. “My grandfather knew the aid of a scouting party of Dwarves when my people crossed the mountains, and he had such tales . . . They were of great help to my people,” Haleth explained as they walked through the gates, into the courtyard beyond, where dozens of Elves passed to and fro on a dozen different tasks. “We were struggling to find our way, and would have wandered lost in the peaks if not for their guidance. They showed to us our path, and raised our spirits with silly, heartfelt songs. My grandfather spoke at length about their ease of laughter, their love for food and drink and craft.”  
   
Caranthir was still silent, setting his jaw as she spoke. Though her words were meant to soften his face, they only seemed to harden something within him - a curiously _green_ sensation, growing all the more so as she spoke of another aiding her kindred with softness in her eyes and fondness in her words.  
  
“Better did the Dwarves help us than your folk in Ossiriand,” she pointed out. “The Green-elves wanted nothing to do with my people, watching us only to ensure that we crossed not into their lands. It was not until we met those from Balan's house that we learned that the Elves were to be our allies – once we passed from the river-lands, that was. It was not until I encountered your aid that I believed their words to be true, however - for I was never given reason to believe otherwise.”  
  
He was silent, unable to say anything when her words were true. He set his mouth, unable to do anything else.  
  
“I am sorry if my words trouble you,” Haleth said, speaking almost carefully – an odd occurrence, he thought, he having long become used to her speech both sharp and cutting.  
  
“Never fear speaking frankly to me,” he waved her concerns away, forcing his own ire to soften. “You have never cared about my pride before, good lady. Why start now?”  
  
“I have never cared about your _pride_ , it is true,” she said. She bit her lip, looking down before looking up again, meeting his eyes almost anxiously. “And yet . . .” she faltered, unsure of how to shape her thoughts. She sighed, running a hand to smooth back the loose strands that had fallen from her braid. A shadow fell over her face as they turned indoors, hiding her away from the sun. “I do not care about your pride, but you . . . _you_ are an ally and a . . . the word _friend_ sounds wrong, but it is true. I would not speak ill of you or yours if I could help it.”  
  
That quickly, the wound inflicted by her words healed over. He smiled again, assuaged.  
  
“I understand,” he said, freeing her from her discomfort. They had come to an intersection in the halls, her rooms laying down one path and his down the other. She stopped, looking up at him as if to make sure he spoke the truth, before nodding - satisfied. “And you will be able to form your own opinions soon enough. I will meet you here when you are ready, and we will go down together.”  
  
Haleth gave her assent to his words, and after giving him a half smile in reply, she turned down the hall. She did not look back at him, and he in turn watched her until he could no more.  
  
Though he would have wished not to, he thought about what she said the whole of the time he readied himself to greet his guests. After so many days on the road, it was odd to deck himself in ornate dress once more – donning robes in a rich brocade of midnight blue and black, and placing a heavy cloak of silver and black about his shoulders. The cloak was fastened by a large clasp, shaped like the star of Fëanor, settling large and eye-catching on his chest. The crest was Curufin's work; dazzling for its elegant simplicity, as most of his brother's wares were. He braided his hair more elaborately than the sensible styles he had been favoring the last few months, and set his silver circlet about his brow with a careful hand. When he glanced at himself in the looking glass, a stranger seemed to look back at him - one glowing with the light of Fëanorian gems, all gifts from his father before Fëanor had ever thought to make his Silmarils. In those early days, Fëanor had delighted in crafting for his family and the elves of Aman rather than for selfish gain. Fëanor had been eager to create wares that matched each of his children in unique settings, always trying to outdo himself with one piece after another.  
  
Caranthir sighed with old memories and turned away, caring little for the rings he wore but for the impact they would have on the Dwarves he sought to entertain. He had given many of his father's treasures away already, all for the awe of the Dwarf-smiths as they sought to unravel Fëanor's secrets. It was an awe he shared but for little, for each seemingly magical jewel from his father's hand was worth the same to him as a smooth stone from the bottom of the riverbed. The Silmarils too would be, were it not for his vow of tongue - but that was something he refused to think about then.  
   
His thoughts were settling in a dark place, he knew. At the realization, he struggled to pick himself up. Normally, when such thoughts plagued him, he would sit alone with a skin of wine and brood until the sun rose with a new day - but he had not of that luxury that night. Instead, he forced him thoughts to turn to lighter things - elsewise his thin mood would do but little to cover over his temper when he needed to present himself as a calm and gracious host. Mentally gathering himself, he prepared for the hours to come, and stepped into the corridor beyond.  
   
An hour after he parted from Haleth, he was ready to join her again. He only waited for a minute or so before she appeared – impressive, he thought, remembering both Curufin and Maglor complaining over how long it took their wives to ready themselves for any sort of formal occasion. Nerdanel had carried no such silly habits about her, he remembered. She was normally as rushed as her husband when she threw down whatever project she had been working on for too long to gather her family into some semblance of presentablity before stumbling out into the public eye. For a moment, he had to do a double-take, certain that the woman he had left earlier was not the same who walked towards him now.  
  
He had never seen Haleth in anything other than rough spun tunics and practical leggings. Better did he know how armor set upon her shoulders rather than the trappings of noble-woman. Helevorn had only a small number of elven women living there – for the land was hard and the days were long, at that – but the women who had taken Haleth under their wing found her a dress in a delicate, gauzy weave in a shade of dark forest green and the palest of greys. The dress brought out the undertones of green in her blue eyes, bright next to the tanned skin of her face. Instead of tightly braided and pulled back from her face, her hair was bushed out and fell in long curls over her shoulders. The wheat colored tresses waved like a field before the harvest, content and ripe in the breeze. He blinked for a moment, taken aback.  
  
“Do I look presentable?” she asked uncertainly, catching his stare. She bit her lip, her hands fidgeting with the fine fabric of her draping sleeves as they never would have with a sword. At the unfamiliar hesitance from her, he felt something inside of him give a twisting that he could not name. “I would not have dressed so, but the lady – Lanwen, I believe her name was – tutted at me, and would not let me join you until she had her way with me.”  
  
“You look as you always do,” he said, though his attempt at levity was a lie in the truest sense of the word. “And I daresay the Dwarves will not notice one way or the other.”

If her sleeves would have allowed her to do so without tangling, he believed that she would have struck him. As it was, the sweeping neckline of her gown (which he had _not_ been staring at) revealed where her blush swept down from her face - in annoyance, rather than discomfort, he was pleased to see - and her breathing quickened with her ire. From experience, he took a step away from her, amused all the more so for the quick spark of her temper.  
  
She rolled her eyes, but he saw where his words had worked to put her at ease. “You do not look terrible yourself,” she said, her eyes falling over his formal robes - for she too had only ever seen him dressed for the road, or clad in armor. The pink on her cheeks deepened as she said so – more flustered in acknowledging his appearance than she was with him commenting on her own.  
  
He felt something warm fill him at her frank appraisal, and hesitated to call the emotion pride. He was aware of his own beauty, but it was . . . different, being thought so by her. “Dwarves tend to take insult when you are not dressed to your best to receive them,” he said dryly, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy air around him. “And a Dwarf taken to insult tends to keep account of the injury - you can believe me that.”  
  
“Never be it that you would give a true reason for injury,” Haleth drawled.  
  
“Indeed not,” he gave with a smirk, holding his arm out to her. “Never that.”  
  
She snorted in amusement, but nonetheless wound her arm through his own, allowing him to lead her down the corridor. Her fingers were cool on his arm, and at her touch, his black mood from earlier seemed to calm. It brightened at the edges, like the night giving way to the dawn.  
  
Curious and curiouser still, he thought, but had no further time to think on his rather mercurial state of mind as they came to the main halls of the fortress, where his people were already gathering, ready to greet their dwarven guests.  
  
He could feel Haleth's gaze between his shoulder-blades as he turned away from her, coming forward to greet the two Dwarf-lords who walked towards him, their retinue staying a polite pace behind as their leaders gave their greetings.  
  
“Welcome Rathsvith, welcome Nýr,” Caranthir gave a shallow bow, which was returned by each Dwarf in turn. “I must apologize for making you wait - I had not thought your arrival to be until the next moon, and we were unprepared.”  
  
“The road was kind to us,” the first Dwarf said – Rathsvith, who had a mane of thick, dark brown hair, shot through with long locks of silver-grey. His beard was braided all the way down the front of his chest, the plaits studded by green emeralds and yellow sapphires. He was tall for a dwarf, his head nearly reaching Caranthir's elbow, and yet, whatever bearing he may have lost in height, he more than made up for with the sharpness of his gaze and the wicked cut of his tongue – that Caranthir knew from experience.  
  
“Our quick travel was testament to the efforts of your own in clearing the mountain ways, Fëanorian,” the second Dwarf added. “Surely such a journey was an omen for good for our talks to come.” This dwarf was Nýr, who, as a son of Nogrod, had a thick, fiery orange beard, studded with copper and dark red garnets until he looked to be part of a flame himself. His head was shaven, and the back of his skull was adorned by a cap of copper links, stringing together great fire opals and gems of orange quartz. The crest of his skull was marked by runes tattooed onto his skin, each proclaiming his place amongst Nogrod's noble-dwarrows. As the mark of a Firebeard, his eyes were a pale shade of amber brown, nearly gold in colour, and at Caranthir's side, Haleth stepped forward in curiosity at seeing so. He could tell where she fought not to stare, not in rudeness, but in simple wonderment - what was so taken for granted by so many now a new and novel sight to her mortal years.  
  
“There is no insult in being slow to welcome an unannounced guest,” Rathsvith said, sounding thoughtful as he spoke. Caranthir looked, and saw where he was studying Haleth with the same interest that she watched them with. “The true insult would be in not introducing us to the guest you already host. A daughter of Men, do I espy, or do my eyes too give way with my age? ”  
  
“Your eyes do you credit, Lord-dwarf,” Caranthir took a step back, allowing the Dwarf-lords to better look at the human woman. “My lady Haleth, may I present to you Rathsvith, son of Regin, of the Broadbeams of Belegost. With him is Nýr, son of Nýrath, of the Firebeards of Nogrod. My lords, this is the Lady Haleth, daughter of Haldad, Chieftess of the Haladin.”  
  
“My opinion of you has risen, Lord-elf, if such a maiden agrees to keep company with you,” Rathsvith stepped forward to boldly greet Haleth with a kiss to the back of her hand, smiling up at her from underneath his beard. “Greetings, my lady. It is an honor to meet the Chieftess of the Haladin.”  
  
“The honor is mine, lord Gonnhirrim,” Haleth dipped in a careful courtesy, so practiced that only Caranthir could see the awkwardness in the motion for her.  
  
“Gonnhirrim?” Rathsvith gave with a laugh, delighted at the term. “Indeed, it is a woman with a silver tongue that the elf has found! You honor me, good lady, with your regard.”  
  
“Be careful,” Caranthir warned, speaking in a stage voice to Haleth – which only amused Rathsvith all the more. “This one could charm a dragon from its horde.”  
  
“I shall remember that,” Haleth said, a smile tugging upwards at her mouth.  
  
“And happy should the dragon be, to bow before a son of Belegost!” Rathsvith gave with a warm rumble of laughter.  
  
“And yet, dragon fire and other threats from the pits of the north are why we meet now,” Caranthir inclined his head, his voice dipping gravely with the true reason for their alliance. “My council was caught unaware, and yet, they could be ready to receive you within the hour if you wish to begin our talks. If you would rather prefer to rest from the road, it would be my honor to receive you in the great hall for supper, and then our talks could start upon the morrow.”  
  
“Only an _e_ _lf_ would suggest business before one is properly fed and settled,” Rathsvith waved a hand. “Your advisers may breathe easy – we will not make them scramble together on such a short notice. Tomorrow will be sufficient enough for tomorrow's dues.”  
  
Caranthir inclined his head, and fought to relax his jaw, doing his best not to let his irritation show. Each generation of ambassadors from Ered Luin seemed to grow more and more bold with their words - and it was not always the best of things to mix with his temper. He bit his tongue, and gave another low bow, hiding the dark flashing in his eyes.  
  
“If you would care to follow me, then,” he gestured to the corridor leading to the great hall, where the house staff had been quickly preparing to receive their guests – there was no greater force to eat one out of house and home than a delegation of Dwarves, after all, and they were prepared.  
  
He was about to offer his arm to Haleth when the Broadbeam beat him to it. Flashing a charming smile, Rathsvith stepped to her side, and said, “And would the lady bless me with the honor of her company?”  
  
Haleth looked to him, raising a brow in amusement at the gentleman's gesture from the dwarf. She gave a half bow this time, rather than curtseying – the movement natural to her - and accepted Rathsvith's invitation. “The honor would me mine, Lord-dwarf.”  
  
“Indeed, Mahal has already smiled upon these talks, then!” Rathsvith said in delight. He was not tall enough to walk arm in arm with her; instead, he lifted his arm and Haleth rested her hand on the bracer that covered his forearm. It was awkward, but she seemed only to be all the more amused for the dwarf's ease and charisma as he met their difference head-on.  
  
Caranthir fell into step behind them as they all turned to follow the steward to the great hall, and kept his thoughts to himself.  
  
Dinner was a lavish affair. Ever loud in both their tempers and their praises, the Dwarves complimented each round of the feast as it came. If Aulë was their Maker, then his bride was their provider, and they toasted Yavanna loudly and gratefully with the start of each course, raising their goblets in a sloppy cheer, each dwarf clicking glasses with the other before starting in again. Haleth, long used to rations and simple fare, had been done after the first course, and she watched the vivacious chatter and indulgence around her with barely restrained amusement and fascination both.  
  
While Rathsvith was sat at his right, Nýr was sat at his left, and Haleth next to him. The Firebeard turned every charm on the human woman, and even though Haleth was normally quite solemn and grave, he made her laugh more than once – a full, bright laughter that Caranthir looked over upon hearing. He . . . he had never heard her laugh, he could only think - not like that, at least. Not breathless and easy, like the girl she never had a chance to be.  
  
When the last course at last passed, and even the Dwarves declared that they could eat no more, Nýr rose to his feet and formally asked Haleth to dance with him. The minstrels, who had been playing softly throughout the meal, saw their intention, and picked up a lively reel in reply – inviting any and all to come and pick up their feet. All finished some time ago, Caranthir's people were quick to stand and join in as the dancing begun. The Dwarves, having no women amongst their party, stood and paired off with each other – caring not for the gender of their partner so much for the joy of dancing, used as they were to the uneven stack of the sexes between them.  
  
Haleth was not graceful, not in the traditional sense of the word. There was no delicate sway to her movements, but rather, a strength and surity of motion that he had witnessed her use with a sword and bow both. She picked up her skirts and spun, and the torchlight turned her hair to a shade of warm amber as it flew around her in an unrestrained wave. She had to crouch awkwardly to allow Nýr to lead her through the dance, but she did so with a smile and not a care as to the rather silly picture they presented. She looked happy, Caranthir could not help but think – and she was transformed for it.  
  
Nýr stared up at Haleth the whole time, laughing with his deep, booming voice as he boasted aloud of having the most enchanting maiden in the room as his partner. Haleth flushed at the words, and that flush more than anything had Caranthir brooding in his seat. He refused the welcoming eyes of the few elven women there – as he always did, for the headache that came from an unwed prince of the Noldor choosing a partner to dance with was not worth the dance itself – content to keep to his place and watch. He let his eyes follow the flash of gold and copper in her hair . . . the play of the firelight on her skin . . . the way her dress spun about her body as Nýr led her through the reel, and found that he was . . .  
  
. . . he was jealous.  
  
He was . . . _j_ _ealous_ , he realized with a shock.    
   
_Jealous._  
  
So unfamiliar was the emotion that he had to take a moment to stop and examine it. He turned the feeling over to deign its shape and form, as novel as it was to him – snaring at his skin and stiffening his every bone as he watched her and the Dwarf with eyes that were increasingly dark and darker still.

He was . . . _jealous_ of the Dwarf in his place. Nýr was smiling with her, dancing with her, and Caranthir had an uncomfortable moment where he realized that he wanted her to smile like that for _him_. He wanted to hold her hand and lead her though the reel, spinning and breathless and _trusting_ him to show her the unfamiliar steps until a slower song began and he could -  
  
“You, Master-elf, are quite smitten.”  
  
Caranthir blinked, startled from his thoughts by the voice speaking from next to him. Rathsvith had not stood to join the revelries, instead sitting with a goblet of wine in his hand and observing with a jovial smile. Caranthir looked, and found himself noticing the thick strands of grey in his beard, the etched wrinkles about his brow, and realized then that Rathsvith danced less and less with each visit. He frowned as he tried to recall how long Rathsvith had been the spokesman of his people, but he found his memory hazy – for constantly moving was the line of death and birth before him, so much so that he had ceased to pay it much attention over the centuries.  
  
And Rathsvith had the years of a dwarf, at that . . . which were almost double the years of mankind. Double, which meant . . .  
   
Caranthir squared his jaw, and pushed those thoughts away, liking them but little.  
  
“I know naught of what you speak, Rathsvith, ” Caranthir said before taking a swallow of his own wine, welcoming the bite that came with the dark vintage.  
  
“Of course you do not,” Rathsvith waved a hand. There was something pointed about his gaze then – sharp, even - and Caranthir looked on him in warning, silently demanding that he keep his place.  
  
Of course, he was ignored. “I do not see why you ignore what is before your eyes,” Rathsvith shrugged. “It is a strong match. A good match.”  
  
“You are forward, Dwarf,” Caranthir let his voice harden, looking at his guest pointedly as he did so. The problem with Dwarves as one's neighbors was also a blessing – they were honest and straight-forward in all things, even when it pertained to things one would rather keep in silence. “You speak when it is not your place to say.”  
  
“Do I?” Rathsvith returned, tilting his head as if he could not understand why his words were wrongly placed. “Ah yes, I forgot – the silly games that are played by those with too many years! I should have known better.”  
  
Caranthir's eyes narrowed, the annoyance that had been flickering underneath his mask of host and ally for the night rising like a flame in his gaze. It mixed with the jealousy that had been turning in his stomach as his jaw fixed in distaste.  
  
And yet, Rathsvith held up a hand, preventing him from speaking. “A moment, before you let your tongue get away from you, and I will then reconsider my generous words. It is not the way of your kind to speak of the obvious, and yet, I am feeling gracious tonight - so I will give you my wisdom, free of coin, even!”  
  
“Free of coin?” Caranthir repeated, stunned by the audacity of the Dwarf before him.  
  
“Indeed,” Rathsvith inclined his head. “We do not often speak of the ways of our kind beyond our own halls, but it seems as if you are in want of counsel, so I will speak. You see, for every woman Mahal sees fit to bless us with, there are three men to match. Our woman-folk are honored for this reason – revered, even – for they are the givers of life, and yet, they are few and far between. As they are few in number, even the lowest born dwarrowdam will have her pick of suitors – suitors who will bend over backwards to prove themselves worthy of being both husband and father when the time comes.”  
  
Rathsvith paused, making sure that he held his attention as he spoke. “I am not married simply because I did not try hard enough with the woman I had thought myself to love. Only time, and her choosing another, more worthy suitor, showed to me both the error of my ways and the depths of my affections. It is a hard lesson to learn, a bitter potion to swallow – and this I can say with experience on my side, as a warning to others. ”  
  
“As touching as that is,” Caranthir said carefully, “I see not the relevance in you passing this tale on to me.”  
  
“Do you not?” Rathsvith returned. “I am saying, Lord-elf, that your lady will not come to you. You must go to _her_ , and prove yourself worthy of your suit.”  
  
Caranthir snorted at the thought of Haleth accepting a courtship – any courtship. The idea of her being wooed with gifts and flowered words . . . it was something that he could not wrap his mind around, no matter how hard he tried.  
  
“She needs no one,” he replied, his voice softer than he would have wished it to be – the wrong answer, he knew a moment after giving it. For rather than dismissing the Dwarf and his unwanted counsel, he had accepted it through failing to demand Rathsvith's silence on the subject – the only way the dwarf would have honored his wish not to speak of the matter.  
  
“Does she not?” Rathsvith questioned. “She is a strong one, it is true.”  
  
“And stronger still for the lack of a man at her side,” Caranthir said dryly. “You do not know her, but let me state the fact of that, at the very least.”  
  
The train of conversation had caused an unsettled feeling to drop in the pit of his stomach. It was silly to even think about this – for his interest in the human woman was as an ally and tentative friend, that was all. It would not have been fair to her for him to look at her in any other way. It would have been dishonorable, even – for the last thing he wanted her to think was that he aided her out of any sort of deeper interest on his part. Even that was impossible, he thought next - for his people did not indulge in frivolous dalliances as some Men were known to do, and she was in no way equipped to handle the forever he would demand of a life's partner. She would be unable to return it, constrained by both her mortality and her place in leading her people, at that.  
  
_Forever_ , he thought, and the single word seemed to be as a lance through the deep places of his being. It was a silly thought, he gave as he brushed it aside. He had known Haleth for a mere handful of days. She was but a child to him – a determined child who simply needed his help to find her own feet underneath her. And then she would be gone – gone due to the hands of time and her own strength, and he would still be there . . . there as he always was.  
  
A _child_ , and yet . . .  
  
He found his eyes slipping to her from across the dancing couples. She was still smiling – laughing at something Nýr said, and the warm light from the torches caught in her eyes, making them shine. Though she was plain in comparison to the fair elvish faces around her, he found something almost . . . pretty about her then, something novel about the freckles on her skin and the mortal glow burning in her eyes, brightening them more than the torchlight ever could.  
  
Something uncomfortable slipped through him, unwanted and unlooked for. In frustration, he pushed those feelings aside.  
  
“Perhaps she _needs_ no one, it is true,” Rathsvith gave, following the path his eyes had taken with something considering in his gaze. His words were almost gentle - as gentle as a dwarf could be, at least. “And yet, is it the same as _you_ need no one?” He let his question settle before saying, “Simply think on my words, Fëanorian. I will let them lay, and say no more on the matter. Besides,” Rathsvith reached over the clap him on the back, “she is not quite to my taste, anyway. There is not _nearly_ enough hair about her chin, and she is much too thin at her waist. And that unnatural height! Whatever was the One thinking with that?!” He laughed, full and jovial with his saying so, and as hard as Caranthir tried to hold onto his ire, he could not quite find it within him.  
  
Instead, he sat there and brooded about the dwarf's words, as much as he would have liked to pretend that they meant nothing to him.  
  
The feasting lasted long into the night – as it often did with dwarvish company. After dancing, Haleth played both dice and cards with his guests, and somewhere along the line a drinking game was started. He escorted her back to her guest's rooms early in the morning, she stumbling and still smiling – but proud of the fact that the Dwarves she faced were faring little better than she.  
   
Haleth let him offer her an arm to lean on, unsteady as she was on her feet. Her weight was slight against him, and it was easy to hold her up.  
  
He left her, and saw her but little the next day when he had the meetings with the Dwarves to see to. The day after, he found her where she was readying to return to her people. Haleth had been gone for too long already, and was growing restless the longer she stayed still in once place. She had rested and regained her strength, and now it was time for her to return home.  
  
The height of the summer was already upon them, and soon it would be time for the fall and the harvest season. She would have her people moved before the weather turned cold; settled and building before the snows hit with the full brunt of winter's might. There was sense in her plan, and yet he felt an odd pang in her chest as he watched her prepare her horse for the journey. He had spent nearly every day for the past four months either traveling alongside her, or in her company and counsel and he would . . . he would miss her.  
  
His talks with the Dwarves would prevent him from accompanying her personally, but she did allow him to appoint a pair of his men to act as a guide for her. This time, she did not try to argue with him, and he was grateful for the small blessing in that.

Already, he was calculating when he could get away again to visit her. The Dwarves would keep him busy until the end of the summer, upon which the autumn would be upon him with the harvest and preparing their stores for the winter. The winter itself would make the mountains treacherous to pass, but after . . .  
  
Perhaps, in the spring, he thought. He could visit Estolad with goods and supplies for the newly founded settlement - in the interest of friendship and continuing the positive relations between all who were toiling underneath Morgoth's yoke. Estolad was not so deep into the Ambrussa's lands that he could not do so underneath the guise of visiting kin; or hunting, even, and . . .  
  
He was placing too much thought into this, a part of him warned as he stepped into the stables. Much too much thought, and yet . . .  
  
Haleth was humming as she worked, soothing her chestnut gelding with easy, nonsense sounds that dipped into the tongue of Men when she used any at all. He spent a moment in silence, content with just watching her from outside the stall. She once again wore a cream colored tunic and dark brown leggings, and her hair was pulled back from her face in a single, thick braid. She wore neither vest or jerkin, there were no bracers about her forearms - only a simple leather belt to hold her tunic against her waist in deference to the heat that was building upon the air. The summer heat pressed stray strands of her braid against her neck and temples with the humidity, but her eyes were bright with the warmth of the stables. As bright as . . .  
  
A flash of silver caught his eye as she ran a comb through the gelding's tail. She wore a ring upon her hand, he saw - a band made by three knotted strands of silver, with an elegantly set blue stone within the face. He blinked when he realized what he was seeing – an instant respect for the craftsmanship of the ring thrumming inside of him, long left over from his father's lessons of old.  
  
“Be careful to keep that trinket hidden on your journey,” Caranthir said into the silence. “You wear a prince's ransom upon your finger.”  
  
Haleth looked up at his voice, not having noticed his arrival until then. While she did not smile in greeting, something about her face softened upon seeing him. “This?” she asked, flexing her hand to better display the ring. “It is rather pretty, I will grant you that.”  
  
“It is more than that,” Caranthir came into the stall to stand next to her, reaching into the bucket to pick out a curry comb. He started to work on grooming the horse's coat with the ease of many years, watching as the gelding's ears flickered back in greeting. While he did not have Celegorm's gift with the beasts of the earth, he could feel the warmth of the animal's soul - content and happy as he was tended to. “The band you wear is made of ever-silver. _Mithril_ , we call it, one of the most precious metals the Dwarves have in their possession to give. It is an ore mined by their kin in the mountains far to the east, and very hard to come by - you must have made quite the impression to earn such a token of their regard.”  
  
Haleth looked down at the band again, blinking as she reevaluated the gift. Her mouth pursed in thought, suddenly wary of the richness of the gift as she moved to take the ring off.  
  
“No,” he said, reaching out to close her hand over the ring, stilling her. “Such a gift is made to be worn – and you would give insult to your gifter if you did not do so. Dwarves appreciate the process of craft itself over the richness of the wares they create, and their gifts are meant to be worn.” He released her hand, and turned towards the horse again. Her fingers were very cool, he thought, even in the warmth of the stables around them.  
  
“It should merely be hidden on the road, then?” Haleth remarked wryly, twisting the band on her finger almost thoughtfully.  
  
“Indeed,” Caranthir gave with a smile. “Wear it openly amongst your people. Who knows - perhaps, one day, it will be an heirloom of your house, and your descendants will tell the tale of how Haleth Haldad's daughter charmed even the Dwarf-lords into surrendering their treasures.”  
  
“They are a good folk,” Haleth said, looking down to hide the flush of her cheeks, “Coarse but sturdy . . . honest, with their own sort of wisdom . . . I enjoyed meeting them very much.”  
  
“You did me quite the favor,” Caranthir admitted ruefully. “The _G_ _onnhirrim_ are never too eager to meet with me, nor I with they, and this is the lightest spirits have been between our kinds in decades. The talks will go well for both sides, I foresee, and I have you to thank for that . . . To think that I once had such arrogance to think that I only had wisdoms to impart to you - and nothing to learn in return.”  
  
Her smile was pleased, even as she ducked down to hide it. She shrugged her shoulders, trading her comb for a hoof-pick next. She paid the horse more attention than him, making a soothing sound in the back of her throat as she ran her hands down the animal's hind leg, coaxing the gelding into lifting his hoof for her. “I treat all equally whenever I can,” she said simply, even as she concentrated on her work. “Sometimes it creates a friend . . . and other times, not so much.”  
  
“A human farmer . . . an Elf-lord . . . a Dwarf-smith? Yes, I have noticed your inability to rise to the hubris of others,” Caranthir admitted wryly.

“What you must have thought of me during these months,” Haleth shook her head, a note of abashment coloring the end of her words. “I have treated you downright poorly at times.”  
  
He shrugged. “No less than I deserved . . .” he muttered, thoughtful as he ran the brush in absent circles over the horse's back. He felt a tightening in his chest – for she had been as a breath of fresh air over those last few months. She spoke freely and frankly with him, caring not of his name and even less of his words when they turned harsh. Instead, she merely matched him in kind.  
  
Caranthir paused in his motions, moving only when she waved him aside so that she could move on to the next hoof. In the silence that stretched between them, she started to hum again. Her voice was rough, not lovely, and yet . . . it was not unpleasant.  
  
“Carnistir,” he surprised himself, dropping the name onto the air between them. “My name . . . it is Carnistir.”

Haleth looked up from her task, letting the gelding straighten his leg again. She blinked, taken aback. "Carnistir?" she repeated. Surprise brightened her voice, drawing it quick from her mouth, and yet, a part of him knew contentment in hearing his true name spoken - a name that had not been spoken by another mouth than his brothers' in centuries.  
   
“That was my mother-name, at least," he went on the explain. "It is not so grand a name - given as it was for my unfortunately red complexion, of all things. My mother had red hair and the skin to match. I inherited her complexion and my father's black hair – and the contrast is stark, I am told, when I am moved to any sort of feeling; temper, especially, which I inherited in spades from each.”  
  
Haleth snorted, amused. “I had noticed, a time or two, but I was not going to say anything,” she teased, looking at him in consideration as she did so. “A mother-name, you say? You are given two names, then?”  
  
“In Aman, yes, it was tradition to be named by both parents,” he confirmed. “Sometimes a third name is earned as one grows – normally, it is one gifted by others. And yet, a mother's name is normally given with insight for her child's future, and used first and foremost.”  
  
“Your mother saw your future for temper tantrums, then?” Haleth asked playfully, her eyes sparkling. “Your naming traditions are not particularly kind, in your case.”  
  
_More than she knew_ , he thought. And yet, he resigned himself to pushing forward.  
  
“I believe that she sought to sooth the name my father gave me with a name of levity. There was a kindness in her doing so, believe it or not.” Caranthir was silent for a moment, discomfort prickling at his skin. He set his jaw, having reached the part of the conversation he had wished to avoid from the beginning. He was not as fortunate as his brothers in the names Nerdanel gave - _Maitimo_ , named for his beautiful form; _Makalaurë_ for his golden voice; _Tyelkormo_ for his speed and agility – in both body and temper; _Atarinkë,_ Curufin was named for his uncanny resemblance to their father in both face and talents. While he was not as unfortunate as the twins in their naming, at least, he . . .  
  
“What did your father name you?” Haleth asked, her voice tentative as she did so.  
  
“Morifinwë,” he said after a moment. “Each of us have _Finwë_ worked into our father-name – it is an almost obnoxious trend in the names of Finwë's house, and the reason that none of my brothers but for Curufin prefer their father-names. And yet, he bears our father's own name - as he was the heir of Fëanor's heart, if not in birth. It is a mark of pride for him, even if many thought it to be disrespectful to my oldest brother – and yet, that is half of the appeal for Curufin.”  
  
He was silent for a moment, setting his jaw as his memories took him. He could still clearly picture the look on Maedhros' face when Fëanor gave his fifth son his own father-name – an honor which should have gone to his firstborn. Maedhros had gone white before carefully schooling his expression to stillness, giving none of his thoughts away. It was common knowledge to all that Maedhros was not the son of the forge Fëanor had wished for, and when Aulë himself had placed his hand to Nerdanel's pregnant stomach and declared that _this one_ was the child that Fëanor had long waited for . . .  
  
Curufin's birth had left their mother exhausted in spirit, and many whispered that Fëanor's fifth son was so much like his father because Nerdanel had nothing left to give to a child's soul. The healers had cautioned against another child, and, as a result, the twins had almost killed her to bear. Such a thing was an unthinkable trial for any elven woman – and the trauma of bringing her youngest sons into the world left Nerdanel never quite the same. He could still remember that awful day if he but closed his eyes . . . he remembered the screams, and the furious efforts of the midwifes as they struggled to bring the twins into the world. He remembered his father praying – _Fëanor_ , who saw the Valar's right to rule as laughable, _praying_ as if it was his own soul he sought to deliver. Even then, the only name Fëanor would beseech was Námo – muttering underneath his breath and begging the Lord of Souls to spare his wife, to show mercy where he had already taken _her –_ for this again would be his fault . . . always _his fault_.  
  
After Nerdanel's recovery, she had refused to give the twins separate names, calling them both _Ambarussa_ for the shared soul between them . . . Fëanor had refused to acknowledge his wife's insights, and stubbornly named the twins separately – even as they blinked at him as one, refusing to cry or gurgle out nonsense words as babies would, instead just _staring_ . . . Ever did they stare, silent and acknowledging none but the other in the world - and still was it so for Amrod and Amras.  
   
The memories turned at his stomach then. At that point in time, Maedhros practically lived at the court, and Maglor stayed all but permanently at the musician's schools in Alqualondë, courting his Lindar maid with stars in his eyes and a lovestruck song to his mouth. Celegorm had been apprenticing underneath Oromë as he learned the wild and its ways from the huntsman of the Valar himself. Curufin, both in jealousy over no longer being the youngest son and missing his favorite in Celegorm, refused to lift a finger to help him with the twins. Nerdanel was distant and lifeless for so long after the birth of the Ambarussa, and Fëanor ignored both his wife and his youngest sons, as if by doing so he could ignore that such chasms in his family existed. And so, he had . . .  
  
He breathed in deep, and let his breath out slow.  
  
Haleth was patient, easily espying the play of memory behind his eyes. He had told her enough of his family – more than he ever had any other - and he felt his jaw tremble as he felt the urge to spill even more to her . . . _This_ , the shadows on the bright spirits of his family; the parts even they themselves did not speak of, as if giving their innermost doubts and fears words aloud would make them _real_ . . . His family had never been quite right; even before the Darkening, even before their Oath. Yet, they were still his family, and he loved them dearly . . . loved them all to death and Valar defying deeds, and even the Everlasting Darkness beyond. He . . .  
   
“Morifinwë?” Haleth broke gently into his musings, seeing as his face darkened. She stood next to him, and while she did not touch him, she soothed down the horse's fur with a soft brush where his was still, as if ready to provide him comfort for that which even she did not understand. “The _Finwë_ is explained to me, and yet . . .”  
  
“Moryo,” Caranthir dropped the name from his tongue, blurting it out as if by doing so he could rid its meaning as well. “It means _dark_ . . . _black_ . . . Those onlooking said that Fëanor named me after staring long and hard into my eyes . . . he did not blink, taken as he was by some vision of my future. He named me on a whisper before he came back to himself - but then, he could not pull the name away once given. Later, he would laugh and tell me that he did so for my hair, and yet, that is not so special a trait amongst my family . . . I could not help but wonder . . . what did he _see_? What insight did he glean about my soul to name me so . . . I have never received an explanation, and yet, I never pushed for one. I never wanted to know.”  
  
Haleth was silent for a long moment. Where, at first, the more fey ways of the elves had been an endless source of curiosity for her – and even dubious disbelief – now she accepted what he said without a word. Her eyes narrowed, and flashed with anger, even, before the emotion was tucked away. He did not see pity there, for which he was grateful . . . but there was something soft in her expression. Her hand on the horse stilled in its caress, stopping very near to his.  
  
“Carnistir,” she said after a moment . . . a long moment. “It suits you.”  
  
“My red face suits me?” he returned, raising a brow as he moved the curry comb again. She knocked her brush into his, scowling playfully. But even as she did so, there was something soft in her eyes – she understood what it had cost him to say those words aloud. She understood, and she accepted yet another edge of his.  
  
“Perfectly so,” she tilted her head as if in challenge. “I would not have you any other way.”  
  
He inhaled, and let the breath out slowly.  
  
“Carnistir,” she mused again, saying the name more to herself than to him. She nodded her head, as if making a decision before stepping away from him to finish grooming the horse. Once again, she started humming as she went about her task, carrying on as if nothing had been said – as if all was right and peaceful in the world. She hummed and tutted at the horse, and he simply stared after her, trying to define the curious sort of warmth that filled him in the wake of her acceptance.  
  
After a moment, he stopped trying to define the restless spin of his thoughts. He simply closed his eyes, and listened to her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a whole bunch of names in this one, but I think that most of them were explained in the prose. :) (Quite a few of my fanon theories on the House of Fëanor were in there too, so feel free to take what you want and leave the rest as merely one more interpretation of canon. ;))
> 
>  **Ered Luin** : Blue mountains.
> 
>  **Balan** : Bëor's original name. 
> 
> **Dwarf Names** : Rathsvith and Regin and Nýr and Nýrath were all taken from the _Völuspá_ \- one of the Lays in Norse Mythology that details the creation of the world. Tolkien took most of his dwarf names from this poem - from Durin, the firstborn of the Dwarrows, to Thorin and _Oakenshield_ , even. Ironically enough, Rathsvith translates to 'swift in counsel', which I thought fitting for this vignette.


	35. "rendering death and forever with each breathing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beren/Lúthien, Eärendil/Elwing, Idril/Tuor || Prompt: _Soul_ , 400 word drabbles

  
**Soul  
** **  
**There were times when her memory of her grandparents was hazy. She remembered best their love and light; such a light that it made their green isle of ever-summer grow as if it were a stolen piece of Valinor beyond, agleam with deathless splendor. And yet, those who lived there were mortal, caught in the thrall of time and held servant to its indomitable will. Each summer gave way to fall, and death would not be thwarted twice when it was natural to those of mortal days, when it was the Gift to his children the One claimed it to be.  
  
Some would call Lúthien untouchable for her beauty; ethereal for her story and great her deeds of old. And yet, to Elwing, there was nothing more tangible than her grandmother and her love . . . There was nothing more solid than her grandfather and the rushing force of his life and living, like a tide beholden to the moon.  
  
“What is this?” she remembered being a child in Beren's arms. She remembered touching the lines carved into his brow; the bird's feet seemingly stamped into the flesh at the corners of his eyes. White peppered his dark hair like snow.  
  
“I am a Man, dear heart,” her grandfather's voice was deep; matching both the warmth in his eyes and the strange, prickly stubble blanketing his chin. “I am not of Elf-kind.”  
  
Her finger moved to curiously trace the curved shape of his ear, and knew his mortality in name only . . . _Man . . . mortal_ . . . both were terms she heard often, and yet . . .  
  
“It means that I shall leave you someday,” Beren's voice was heavy. With a child's mind, she then assumed that time had done that also. “And yet, never shall I truly be gone, if you but remember me.”  
  
What a silly thing to say, Elwing had thought as she pressed a kiss to her grandfather's cheek. His coarse skin tickled her mouth, and she had giggled, his strange words forgotten . . . for a time.  
  
Later, Lúthien held her close, and answered her questions with a solemn weight to her eyes, matching the tired look of her husband. Did time touch her too? Elwing had wondered then. All of the stories said so, and yet, she could not tell . . .  
  
“The soul is not in the flesh,” Lúthien whispered, tracing a finger down to rest over her heart, “but rather, in the heart. Remember that, child, and never shall you then know death.”

 

 

.

.  
  
The sea was a salty, clean scent on the air as the waves splashed up against the rocky shore. Upon the tall rocks, Eärendil sat, his brow creased in thought and his blonde hair dancing in the swift breeze from the ocean. Though Elwing did not care for the open expanse of the sea, she climbed up to sit next to her intended; seeing the weight of his thoughts within his eyes, feeling as they tugged against her spirit with their shape and spin.  
  
She did not ask him what was wrong. She merely waited, until -  
  
“Today, I met my father at the ship-yards,” Eärendil said. The sea-wind dried his eyes, but could not hide the tremble from his voice, “I went into his office, and he . . . he did not know my name for a moment. He did not remember me.”  
  
She felt a weight sit upon her chest with his words, feeling his pain as her own. Tuor was mortal, and grew older still with each passing day. When first she had met the Ulmodil, he had been all golden hair and tanned skin, with clear blue-green eyes colored like tide pools and a heart to match an ocean storm . . . Now his hair was the colour of sand; his beard was peppered with white; and his eyes . . . they were milky, glazed, as if looking far away. There were times when she would see Idril when she thought she was alone; how she held her face in her hands and choked back silent sobs – for she took her love from stolen time, and soon . . .  
  
“He did not know me,” Eärendil said again, as if by repeating the words, he could make sense of them. “I was as a stranger to him.”  
  
Elwing swallowed as she imagined Eärendil turning old and grey; knowing her not in their old age, knowing their children not, and . . . It was a thought she could not fathom; she could not complete.  
  
Their's was a choice, and she so dearly wished . . .  
  
And yet, until then, she rested her head against his shoulder, and sighed. “The soul is in the heart . . . not the flesh,” she said, remembering Beren and his length of days . . . remembering Lúthien in the eve of mortality's might. “ . . . the same as your memory of him shall be.”  
  
He did not say anything – for what could he say? Instead, he let her hold him, and listened to the waves as they roared.

 

 

  
.  
.  
  
There were times when she looked at her husband, and he would blink before recognizing her. He would hesitate before his heart told his eyes her name, and he would then hold his arms open to welcome her close.  
  
This eve was better than most evenings. Tuor greeted her without hesitating, and she sighed in contentment as she curled against her husband's side. Tuor's hands played absently in the long fall of her hair, his eyes lost where the sun died a glorious death of flames upon the horizon beyond.  
  
“I am not as young as I used to be,” he whispered; to her or the ocean, she could not tell.  
  
Her hand was resting on his chest. She poked the skin over his heart. “You are young here,” she said, forcing a levity to her voice that she did not feel.  
  
“Idril,” Tour sighed.  
  
“I married your heart, not your body,” Idril's mouth set, as if she were fighting a battle.  
  
Tuor caught her hand, stilling her. “You do me a wound, wife,” he teased, and yet his voice was strained. He wished to talk about this, she knew. And yet . . .  
  
“You are not so very old,” she whispered, her voice small.  
  
“Old enough,” he said. He had to work to find his voice. “And I . . . I do not want to linger here and waste away . . . I did not know my son's name today, and I cannot imagine turning as a ghost in my own home . . . with every ageless eye mourning me even as I breathe.”  
  
Her eyes closed against a pain. He looked west, seemingly taking strength from the sea-wind. “I . . . my heart pulls me with the tides,” he murmured. “They tease me with such promises . . .” he sighed. “Tell me again of Valinor again, dear one? I wish to hear . . . and hope.”  
  
She rested her hand flat against his heart as she shared her childhood's memories, watching as her husband grasped to them like one drowning. She knew of the wish of his heart, and as much as she wished to stay . . .  
  
Her husband's soul was still alive and strong, for the flesh surrounding it was but a shell. She would not give up her love until his last breath tore him from her, and not a moment before. This she vowed -  
  
“Perhaps we should sail, one last time.”  
  
\- and let the sea take as a promise. ****


	36. "through to the heart"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm & Aredhel || Prompt: _Target_ , Free-write

**Target  
**   
The first time Irissë was old enough to remember meeting Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, she slapped him.  
  
He had deserved it, Irissë had thought darkly as a print of her hand bloomed on the tanned skin of his face. She had defeated him fairly – beating him in a foot race from the mouth of Indis' gardens to where a small, elegant bridge stretched over one of the ornate ponds in the back of her grandfather's palace. It was he who could not bear his loss with dignity; scrunching his face in a way that made his eyes squinty, and muttering out insults underneath his breath for her victory.  
  
Irissë had slapped him for him calling her a cheater. She had pushed him in the pond for saying that, as a girl, her defeat should have been assured. Of course, he had sprang up from the green water to wrestle her from the bridge, and she got strands of water lilies tangled in her hair when she tried to dunk his head underneath the water. They were returned to their parents soaking wet and dripping pond-water onto the ornate tiled floor after Findekáno and Maitimo were sent to fetch them. Her brother had pulled leaves from her hair, trying to scold her with his words even as his eyes smiled in betrayal to his voice. Even still, he told her _well done_ once their mother's back was turned. At his side, even Maitimo had looked satisfied for her manner of extracting vengeance on Tyelkormo once he wrought the story from his stuttering brother - the much younger elf looking rather pitiful indeed for Nerdanel's scolding.  
  
Later, Anairë got her into the bath while sighing over the green stains that ruined her once white dress. _Why do you insist on this color, daughter, if you inflict on me many pains to keep it clean?_ She was not as gentle as Findekáno had been when she combed the snarls from her hair, scolding her as to how a princess of the Noldor was to act in the house of their King. _How a granddaughter should play in her grandfather's house with one of her cousins_ , her father had returned to his wife when he thought that she could not hear - even as her mother sighed in that way that said that she was _exasperated,_ amused and cross all at once. Irissë knew that sigh well.  
  
The next day, she explored the park beyond the palace once again. Her child's mind called the small stream a raging river, while her imagination turned the ornamental trees into the great and tangling forests of Middle-earth beyond the sea. She walked with a wooden stick in hand, pretending that she was a warrior-maiden protecting her people during the Great Journey. In her mind, she was one of the great heroines from the dawn of her people; renowned for her deeds of might and valor against the fell creatures of the Dark Lord.  
  
It was then that she became aware of the sound of voices through the bushes. Curious, she came in closer - hearing the dull sound of wood striking wood, followed by the sound of a child's shout. Intrigued, she pushed closer to see . . .  
  
_Tyelkormo_ , her jaw set when she recognized his mane of white gold hair. He was crossing wooden swords with his youngest brother – whom Irissë did not know very well. She only knew Curufinwë as the baby of Finwë's house (finally taking the shared title from she and Artanis, who were born only a season apart), easily recognized by his long black hair and the strange fire burning in his eyes - the same as all of her half-uncle's sons had. Curious, she followed the crossing of sword on sword, her eyes following with something she refused to call greed.  
  
Her father had said that such skills were worthless in deathless Aman as it was, calling them an insult to the ones who protected and sheltered them; who had called them to the West as friends in the eldest days. And yet, she could not help but turn towards the mock fight beyond, curious . . .  
  
Irissë did not think that she made a sound, but she must have, for a moment later Tyelkormo's eyes were narrowing, and then he peered past the bushes to find -  
  
“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked crossly, the hand not holding his sword propped up on his hip. Behind him, Curufinwë peered curiously around his brother's arm, intrigued.  
  
“I could ask the same of you,” Irissë challenged, coming out from the shade of the bushes to stand with her own hands propped on her hips.  
  
“No one else is supposed to know,” Curufinwë ignored her in favor of tugging on his brother's sleeve - biting his lip and glancing beyond. “That's why Atar said that we were not supposed to practice here -”  
  
“Silence, Curo,” Tyelkormo snapped at his brother, pushing him back a step. Curufinwë's mouth set in a thin, dangerous, line, and he took a step forward -  
  
Irissë darted between the two, not wanting their meeting to deteriorate into blows. “It is not his fault,” she said, tossing her head imperiously. “I already knew.”  
  
She did not, but -  
  
“Oh yeah?” Tyelkormo challenged. “How?”  
  
“My brother told me,” she said, hoping that that would be enough to dissuade him from questioning her further. It was true enough, Findekáno and Maitimo were always together – and if there was someone in her family who would know the secrets of Fëanáro's house . . .  
  
“Turukáno?” Curufinwë blinked dubiously. “But I do not think he would -”  
  
“Not Turvo, obviously,” Tyelkormo all but growled. “ _Findekáno_.” He spat her brother's name on the ground as if it were a curse.  
  
Tilting her head up, Irissë stood with her feet squared with her shoulders. She made a thin line of her mouth, and said, “It does not matter how I know,” in the haughtiest voice she could muster. “What matters is that I do know. Now, what are you going to do about it?”  
  
Irissë glanced down at the wooden sword in his hand, letting her eyes rest in a meaningful pause. And -  
  
Tyelkormo barked out a laugh, reminding her of a baying hound with the way his teeth flashed. “You . . . want to learn the sword?”  
  
“As the price of my silence,” she confirmed, holding her nose up. He was staring at her as one would look at a bee in the honey pot. He stepped closer, as if thinking that his greater height and age would let him tower over her and cow her into submissiveness.  
  
She stood up straighter underneath the heat of his regard, holding his gaze stubbornly with a glower of her own.  
  
“Now, your answer?” she pressed him.  
  
“Teach you?” Tyelkormo scoffed. “You are but a _n_ _í_ _s_.”  
  
“You have eyes that see. I congratulate you,” Irissë drawled sarcastically. “And yet, this _n_ _í_ _s_ pushed you into the pond yesterday – after beating you fair and square in a foot-race. What say you to that?”  
  
Curufinwë gave a snort of laughter, and Tyelkormo turned his glare on his brother – who returned the look with one of his own.  
  
“Are you _afraid_ to show me?” she gave her challenge next. Curufinwë darted his gaze rapidly between them, drinking in their words as if to more accurately retell teach one to the rest of their brethren when first he could. “Are you _afraid_ to be beaten by me again?”  
  
Tyelkormo glanced from his brother to her, his face flushing at her accusation. “I am a son of Curufinwë Fëanáro,” he returned haughtily. “I fear nothing.”  
  
“Well then,” she held up her wooden stick as if it were a true weapon. “What have you to fear from a _n_ _í_ _s_ holding a wooden sword? Please, cousin . . .” she dropped the line of steel from her voice to ask him truly, “Would you show me?”  
  
Tyelkormo snorted – but there was something else in his glance now, as if he was trying not to smile. This close, she could see where there was more green than grey in his eyes – a curious combination, she thought. The dappled patterns the sunlight made through the trees danced over him when he walked over to where he and his brother had left their packs resting by a treetrunk. He picked up another wooden sword from the canvas flap, and then turned and tossed the sword to her. While she fumbled with catching it, she did not let it fall.  
  
“If we are going to do this, we are going to do so properly, at least,” he sniffed. Irissë smiled, reevaluating her opinion of her cousin – ever so slightly, at least.  
  
“Now,” she said, holding her sword in what she thought was a reasonably descent stance. “Where do we start?”  


  
  
.

.  
  
As the years passed and their relationship grew, she found a friend where first she had thought such a thing hopeless. The daughters of the Noldor looked at the earth on her hands and the green smears on her gowns with odd gazes, as if she were a being apart from them. Better than embroidery and dancing did she enjoy riding and the wide open spaces beyond Tirion's marble walls. She enjoyed her fine gowns and twining elegant braids in her hair; but better did she prefer the sun warming and browning her skin, the smell of oiled leather to that of the gently perfumed ways of the court. _Better for my daughter's happiness would_ _she have_ _be_ _en_ _born to the Laiquendi of Lenw_ _ë_ _'s house_ , her father would tease her whenever her thoughts turned morose on the matter. _And yet, then I would be deprived of her light, and so, I selfishly thank the Valar for the gift of her._  
  
Such words could not help but lift her spirits. It did not matter, she thought whenever her mind wished to draw her down – Tyelkormo liked her just the way she was, and that was all that concerned her. Oh, he was still insufferable and arrogant, but she knew him to be more than that. While he was not _soft_ underneath his rather harsh exterior, per say, he bore his own sort of gentleness. He could speak to the birds and _feel_ the hearts and thoughts of animals the way she could hear words spoken aloud. She had once seen him nurse a tiny fawn to adulthood after he struck a doe he should not have during the hunt. That fawn was now a great white stag in the woods beyond Tirion, with a massive crown of antlers that was both graceful and humbling to look upon at once. When she thought of her cousin, she did not think of the harsh words and the fire in his eyes, but rather, his gentle fingers coaxing the tiny fawn in his lap to drink from a bottle. She thought of him singing on the path and the birds answering him - better was his soul known to the wild than it was to those of his own kind.  
  
He enjoyed the challenge she presented, he said whenever she dared him to admit that he enjoyed her company. She forced him to run faster, ride harder, and aim truer than any of his own brothers. He was grateful to have _some_ competition in Aman, at least, even if that competition was a girl. He was used to her swatting at him for such words, and now she rather thought that he did so on purpose, trying as he was to exact such a reaction from her.  
  
Now, it was the spring of her fortieth year, and she was finally old enough to enter the Games for the first. It was whispered that the Vala Oromë was to attend the festivities that year, searching for a new apprentice to join his fold. When she had repeated the rumors to Tyelkormo, breathless and bubbling with excitement for her news, his look had turned serious in reply. She knew the wish of his heart, and she was happy for her friend – truly she was. Oromë would find no better pupil – and while Tyelkormo said that he would be honored for the Vala to look his way, she secretly thought that the blessing would be Oromë's, in turn.  
  
For herself, she was merely happy to put to use the skills she had been learning. She made a good showing in the knife toss, and came in second to Artanis in the long race – which, to anyone who knew Artanis, was not anything to be ashamed of. Afterward, she and Turukáno took a respite from competing to watch Maitimo and Findekáno face off in the staff games – where they fought with long poles while balancing on a log in the water – which was always amusing to watch in every sense of the word. For their great friendship, they were both impossibly competitive, and it was always a toss up to see who would come out triumphant. This time, Findekáno was able to knock his cousin in the water first – and yet, as soon as he surfaced, Maitimo reached up to pull the other into the water by his ankle, and there was laughter from the throats of all gathered as Findekáno spluttered to clear the water from his lungs.

In the afternoon, she placed well in the stationary archery contests, and did even better in the equestrian sports – taking another second place in the jumping. Yet, it was the finale of both competitions that she was truly eager for. To test both the skill of the rider and the aim of the archer at once, there had been a cross country course prepared through the wood, with thirteen moving targets that were set at random in the trees. The course was to be rode in pairs, with each rider both striving to beat the other to the finish, and hitting the tagets as accurately as possible. Irissë had practiced long and hard for this event in particular, and it was her main focus at the Games.  
  
To sweeten her incentive to win, both her father and the Vala Oromë were watching that game in particular. She was eager to prove herself to her father – to prove that his letting her go so often in the wild was a wise decision on his part. She wanted to make him proud – and it helped that her half-uncle was standing by her father's side, his every look imperious and haughty. She knew that it was an unspoken competition between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë to see whose children would perform the best at every Game, and at that point in the day, her father held a narrow lead on his half-brother. The Trees were waxing above them, Teleperion's silver light slowly overpowering Laurelin's gold with the onset of night – which meant that there were few sports left for the day. And so, the honor of her family was now in her hands.  
  
Irissë beat each rider she was paired with until it came down at last to her and Tyelkormo in the final race - which would decide first and second place. Beforehand, she wished her friend well, and teasingly offered him one of her ribbons as a lady's token – to which he smiled a smile full of teeth and told her that he made his own luck. He handed her her quiver then, an image of chivalry that had her rolling her eyes as she mounted her horse, and then they were being called to the start.  
  
She inhaled a shaky breath as she saw her whole family gathered and watching on the sidelines. Even her grandfather looked on her with pride in his eyes, even though that look could just as easily have been for Tyelkormo. She saw a figure cloaked in hunter's green at the back of the crowd, and while she did not know for certain, she could _feel_ the leashed power lingering about the man - and she knew then that the Huntsman's eyes were upon she and Tyelkormo both.  
  
Irissë felt a tremor of anticipation trickle up and down her spine, and then -  
  
The horn was blown, and they were off.  
  
She hunched low over her horse's withers, guiding with her seat and her hands as they raced to the first target. She balanced with the strength in her legs while she drew the first arrow from her quiver and aimed for the target as it swung down from the trees – hitting the center of the circles with a satisfying whoosh and thud of sound. A perfect hit. Tylekormo was a heartbeat behind her, his arrow embedding in the ring just below her own.  
  
Close, but not close enough, she thought in satisfaction.  
  
The ground dipped and the terrain turned rugged, and she had to focus on the jumps and trials of the path as she aimed her next arrow. She carefully anticipated the way the target was moving in the trees – pulled along by elves in the branches, mimicking a true target with their actions.  
  
Another clean hit . . . another, and then another.  
  
By the time the path doubled back on itself, she and Tyelkormo had each taken six of the thirteen targets apiece. They were riding neck and neck, meaning that no extra points would be gained for the quickest ride. It would all came down to whoever cleanly hit the last target.  
  
Taking in a deep, settling breath, she took the last arrow from her quiver. The world seemed to fall away from her; the cheering from those onlooking was nothing but white noise in her ears, she could feel her heartbeat thunder in her chest. She counted out each breath, timing her shot in between the rise and the fall of her horse's strides. She and her dappled grey mare were moving together perfectly, seemingly one being as she took her aim, and -  
  
_A perfect shot_ , she felt it in her bones as she let the arrow go a second before Tyelkormo did, and then -  
  
The arrow went wildly astray, spinning though a tumbling arc before embedding itself in the ground beneath the target. She missed completely, even as Tyelkormo's arrow struck the dead center of the target, embedding itself so fiercely that the shaft splintered on contact.  
  
She came back to herself. The cheers were deafening. Her heartbeat skipped in her chest.  
  
She . . .  
  
_She had missed._  
  
. . . how? She did not understand where she had gone wrong.  
  
Moving numbly, she dismounted from her horse, feeling as if she moved separate from herself as she was clapped on the back by her brothers and praised for the skill she displayed in her ride – a great showing, even if she did not take the victory from their half-cousin. She felt as Findekáno picked her up and spun her about in the air, and yet . . . She pushed away from him once he set her down, trying not to flinch as she saw the way her uncle _smiled_ at her father with his victory. She could not look at her father - her father, who had not a care for Fëanáro and his words, but was instead walking towards her, concern etched into every line of his face.  
  
He knew her better than any other, she thought, blinking against her suddenly burning eyes. He would know how utterly disappointed she was.  
  
Her aim was _perfect_ , she thought next – numbly, _defiantly_. There was no way that she could have missed the target entirely. She had felt the _rightness_ of the shot as she released it . . .  
  
Without consciously registering her movements, she walked back onto the field to pick up the arrow that had failed her. She examined it – from the head she had sharpened and attached herself, to the wood she had carefully measured and cut, and the fletch she had strung with silken thread . . .

Irissë ran a careful finger over the feathers, to see . . .  
  
They had been cut.  
  
_Cut._  
  
She felt fury erupt as something molten to cover her bones. Her hands made fists over the sabotaged arrow, remembering only Tyelkormo smiling, and Tyelkormo handing her her quiver before the start of the race. _I make my own luck_ , he had said. And . . .  
  
He wouldn't, she felt her fury fade, giving way to the even sharper cut of _hurt_. He was her _friend_ , and he would not hurt her like that. _He wouldn't_.  
  
But Oromë was watching; watching the same as Fëanáro was watching . . . Could he have been moved to such extremes to assure that he failed neither? Could he . . . _would_ he do that to her? She knew what she wanted to believe in answer, and yet . . .  
  
Irissë felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Tyelkormo's dancing green eyes smiling down at her. “Better luck next time, my friend,” he had the _audacity_ to tease her, tugging on one of her braids with a traitor's affection. “Perhaps you will defeat me next year, no?”  
  
She leveled him with an incredulous look – the fury in her eyes made all the more potent for the gushing hurt she felt - like a tide of blood accompanying the withdrawal of a knife. She felt her eyes burn then, and rather than let him see just how much he had wounded her, she threw the arrow down at his feet without saying a word. She turned on her heel and left, uncaring about the eyes who would see her doing so and interpret it as a fit of bad sportsmanship. Let them think what they wanted - she did not care. She simply had to leave before . . .  
  
She barely made it to an empty stall in the stables before she buried her face in her hands and let herself cry. She cried with ugly, hiccuping sounds, frustrated and hurt. He was her _friend_ , she could not reason beyond that simple truth. He was her _friend_ , and friends did not treat each other so. They did not use each other so callously for their own gain.  
  
Only moments passed before she heard another enter the stables. At first she thought it was Tyelkormo, and she felt her top lip draw away from her teeth in a fey expression of anger at the thought of his presence. Even worse would it be for him to see her crying than he having cheated her in the first place. But it was not Tyelkormo who came up behind her, but an even more familiar set of arms that surrounded her – her father pulling her to his chest and enfolding her in his embrace.  
  
“My daughter,” she could feel Nolofinwë's voice rumble from his chest more than she could hear it. He soothed a hand over her braids – the braids that she had so carefully set with blue and silver ribbons, eager as she was to do her family proud – and shushed her as if she were still a small child. At the warmth of his comfort, she felt her tears come upon her more violently still.  
  
Somehow . . . he knew, she understood then. He must have seen her with the arrow, and glimpsed her thoughts as they formed - so strongly as she must have been projecting to anyone with an ear to hear.  
  
“I _hate_ him,” she hiccuped on an ugly voice, making fists in the rich brocade covering his chest. “I hate him _so much_ . . .” The pain in her chest stabbed all the worse for her words – for truly, _she did not_. And yet, her love for the other just made it all the worse. She wished that she hated him, she truly did . . . it would make things so much easier. “I hate him . . .” she gave on a whisper, and willed the words to be true.  
  
“I know,” Nolofinwë sighed against the top of her head – understanding her turbulence of feelings as few others could. “I know.”  
  
Her father held her until her tears quieted, and then he and her mother walked her home. They slipped away from the crowd where no eyes could see, each walking with their arms about her - lightening her spirit with the warmth of their own as they had not since she was a very small child. She washed the dirt and grime from her body upon returning home, and after, she let her mother brush and braid her hair for her. Anairë did not say much as she worked. She merely hummed underneath her breath as she tended to her daughter, and at the gentle mothering, Irissë felt a calmness descend over her, replacing the numbness that had followed her tears earlier. _I do not care_ , she told herself more than once. _I do not need him for a friend,_ _anyway_ _._ _I am better off without him._  
  
It was a lie, but for the moment, it was easier to face than the truth.  
  
She went to bed after, heart-sore and utterly exhausted, but she could not find sleep, no matter how she beseeched Irmo for dreams. Instead she stared at the ceiling, awake and lost to her thoughts. She knew not how long she laid there before she heard an odd tapping at her window. A moment passed, and then she heard it again. Annoyed, she turned over in bed, but the sound persisted.  
  
Again . . .   
  
. . . and again.  
  
She sat up, her eyes narrowing once she realized that someone was throwing pebbles at her window. By Eru, but who . . .  
  
There was only one she could think of who would have the gall to do so. She set her mouth in a thin, cross line, and laid back down, determinedly turning her back on the window.  
  
Some time after she thought that the pebble-thrower had given up, she heard as her window was pried open from the outside. There was a shuffling of sound, and then she heard her intruder breathe out a curse underneath his breath.  
  
And then, louder she could hear, “The way Maitimo speaks, I saw that going much easier in my mind.”  
  
At hearing _his_ voice, she burrowed deeper underneath her blankets. She did not want to hear anything he had to say. Her back was still to him, but she could see where his shadow became smaller as he came closer to her bed.  
  
A moment passed. She heard him draw in a deep breath, and then, “Irissë . . . I came to say that I am sorry.”  
  
Still, she was silent. She ground her teeth together to bite back her words.  
  
“My father was watching,” Tyelkormo tried to awkwardly explain next. He was never fluid with his words, let alone with speaking about his own heart and feelings. She watched his shadow as it paced. “I . . . I fail so often when he is around, and I . . . I could not fail again. I am not the son of the forge he wanted, but I wanted to prove that I could excel where my talents laid . . . I thought . . . I thought to make him proud. And you . . . you are _good_. My equal, even, and I could not . . . ” he gave that last truth as if he spoke around a blade.  
  
Still, Irissë was silent. Had she truly lost the competition, her father would still know pride in her abilities, she thought then. She was certain of her father's love; certain of his joy in who she was growing to be. She could not imagine . . .  
  
In skill, Fëanáro was the greatest of their kind who would ever walk the ground of Arda marred – that, even the Valar had whispered as truth. To grow under, and live up to his demanding a similar perfection in his sons . . . a perfection impossible to achieve . . . She wanted to tell Tyelkormo that his father was not perfect. Skilled, yes; but he lacked in matters of the heart and tender feeling – or, if he did not, then he lacked in his showing of such emotion. His fëa was chasmed by many lines - no matter the violence of flame that erupted, dazzling, from those fractures.  
  
“It did not matter anyway,” Tyelkormo continued when he realized that she would not reply. “My father knew, and he was . . . disgusted that a son of his would need to _cheat_ to prove himself superior in any way.” She could hear his voice as it trembled over the word.  
  
And yet, she sat up - her anger suddenly erupting fresh within her. “You are apologizing because you were _caught_ ?” she asked, incredulous as she whirled upon him.  
  
“No – that's not it at all,” Tyelkormo swiftly backpedaled. She looked, and saw that his eyes were very wide, showing more silver than green. His nearly white hair burned about his head.  
  
“No,” he said again, more calmly this time. “I am here because I hurt _you_ , and . . . that in turn hurt _me_ more than I thought it would . . . my father gave a formal apology to your father for my actions, and that too hurt. Better would it have been for him to acknowledge you the victor truly than admitting that his son was a liar and a cheat . . . It shamed me. Nolofinwë said that I moved you to tears . . . you are _Irissë_ , and you do not _cry_ . . . It was not losing that wounded you so, but rather the knowledge that _I_ had done you wrong . . . and that shamed me even more than my father's disappointment. It was as a physical pain in my chest, and I . . .”  
  
He sighed, running a hand through the mused strands of his hair in frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts. The flicker of shame she felt at him knowing her moment of weakness passed quicker than she would have first thought. Under any other circumstances, it would be almost natural for him to see her in tears – he was her best friend, and she hid nothing from him, not even that which was not strength.  
  
“Oromë too knew that I cheated,” he said next, sounding truly miserable then. “He was the one to tell my father, and to see the look on his face then . . . I wanted so badly to prove myself worthy of the Vala's attention, and instead I shamed myself.”  
  
She fought the urge to wince at his saying so. To see proud Fëanáro humbled before the Valar he refused to acknowledge as lords over their people . . . to know that such a being saw him at his worst . . . She almost wished that he had beaten her truly, just to spare him the pain of rejection and humiliation he felt now.

 . . . almost.  
  
“And then it occurred to me that you are the only one I have never feared failing in front of. You are the only one who has ever accepted me – all of me – and I . . . I betrayed the trust you had in me. I am not asking you to forgive me; I am simply telling you how sorry I am . . . and that I hope that you will still continue to be my friend, and let me make amends to you.”  
  
Irissë felt her heart soften, even where she willed it not to. She wanted to be angry, and yet . . .  
  
Tyelkormo saw the moment where her eyes softened. “If you wish, you may push me in the pond tomorrow.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadow.  
  
She was still silent, weighing him with her eyes, and then . . .  
  
“To start with,” she finally said, tilting her chin up haughtily. “But don't think that you will get off so easily, Tyelko.”  
  
His smile only grew. “Does that mean that I am forgiven?”  
  
She raised a dark brow, but refused to answer him. Instead, she turned her back on him, and laid down once more – effectively dismissing him. And yet, she could imagine his smile as it turned.  
  
A moment passed, and then she heard her window open once more. A second later, she heard the small sound of it closing.  
  
Irissë allowed herself a single smile as she settled into her pillow once more. When she closed her eyes, she found the path of dreams open and easy before her once more.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Curufinwë** : Curufin  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Nís** : Quenya for 'woman'


	37. "songs from twilight"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ensemble Doriathrim - Thirty 100 word drabbles from Doriath, from rise to fall
> 
> I have a head-canon warning for this set of drabbles. While Thranduil's backstory is not officially known, I do like to put him born in Doriath before the rise of the Sun. I have Oropher as the oldest son of Elmo here - explaining how Thranduil could claim the title of Elven-king from Thingol's line. (Elrond would be the only one more closely related, I think, and he would not pursue that title for obvious reasons.) Elmo himself is only mentioned in the _History of Galadriel and Celeborn_ to explain Celeborn's relation to Thingol - I mentioned him briefly earlier in this collection, and eventually, I will get to writing down the tale I have built up in my mind, seeing as how Tolkien did not give us one. So! You are by no means required to have my point of view as your own. :)

**Haunt**

The starlit woods of Nan Elmoth sang a haunting tune. They called to Elwë; beckoning, promising . . .  
  
“You wandered off again,” came Olwë's voice from down the path. "We've been looking for you."  
  
Elwë held up a hand, silencing him. “Do you hear that?”  
  
Olwë listened for a heartbeat. “ . . . birdsong?”  
  
“ _Nightingales_ ,” Elwë corrected, staring above. “They follow us.”  
  
Olwë smiled good-naturedly. “Really, brother, you are too fey for your own good,” he teased, and yet, Elwë hesitated; sure that somewhere in the trees, a whispered voice called to him. For a moment, he yearned . . .  
  
 _Aye, fey indeed_ , he thought wryly, before turning away.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Presence  
  
** The histories will say that she stole, but truly, it was she who was stolen first.  
  
This world was a world of slumber and twilight, and yet, _he_ was there; calling to her, resonating in the heart of her spirit as an extension of the Song itself. And this silver Elven-king could _feel_ her in return, impossibly aware of her presence as she was aware of his. They called to each other as the stars did to the night sky, until . . .  
  
It was not a theft to take what was already given, she at last decided, and he had given her much indeed.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Leave  
  
** They had waited for as long as they could, and now, they could wait no longer.  
  
“The sea calls to me,” Olwë admitted. “The tide sings with my soul, and yet . . .”  
  
And yet, to leave their brother behind? Elmo could _feel_ Elwë's spirit in the forest; nearly touchable, even when beyond their reach. Then . . . there was the rightness he knew in these forests, as if he were a tree with deep roots. He understood the way the sea called to Olwë, for the forests sang the same song to him.  
  
He exhaled, and made his decision. “Then you understand why I must stay.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
 **  
Leaf**  
  
Menegroth was a maze of silver stone, resembling a forest of bark and leaf; wrought by careful hands and eager hearts.  
  
“Not as impressive as watching Yavanna sow the forests, perhaps,” Thingol teased his wife. “Yet, there is a majesty to be found here.”  
  
“It will keep our people safe,” Melian agreed, feeling spells sparkle at her fingertips, imaging how she would further shield their land. She held a hand to her still flat stomach – their reason for all, and thought: _soon_. “And you, husband-dear, know that I find beauty in all of Ennor. Our kingdom shall be no exception.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Bind  
  
** “Ada, dance with me!”  
  
Always, their Princess' wish was Thingol's delight. Lúthien's laughter was as musical as any song, and Elmo turned towards it, the sound one of the few things able to stir him from his apathy. It had been a century since his wife's disappearance, before the Girdle, and still . . .  
  
“He is besotted,” Oropher smiled in an attempt to draw his father's smile in return. “Is he not?”  
  
Elmo only nodded, and Oropher caught his brother's eye, Galadhon just as lost as he was. Beyond them, Lúthien danced, and white flowers bloomed were her feet touched the ground.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Bound**  
  
“You, my friend, are quite smitten.”  
  
“And _you_ have already been at the wine.”  
  
“That,” Thranduil raised his goblet, “Is quite beside the point.”  
  
Celeborn turned from where he (had not) been staring at a maiden with golden hair. Thranduil's expression was carefully neutral - for the starlight had been swallowed by the Sun and Moon, lightening the Exiles' footsteps. All would be bound in the wars they brought with them, Oropher was vocal against aiding the newcomers, and Thranduil agreed.  
  
And yet . . .  
  
“Here,” Thranduil passed Celeborn his wine when Artanis' gaze flickered over him. “You shall need this more than I.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Confidant**  
  
While Melian's arts came naturally to Lúthien, Galadriel surpassed her in determination for their learning. Already, Lúthien absently trailed her fingers in the enchanted basin as Galadriel practiced, her eyes far away.  
  
“You faced many trials to wed my kinsman, did you not?” Lúthien asked.  
  
“A few,” Galadriel answered, raising a brow.  
  
“Was it . . .” Lúthien hesitated. “ . . . was it worth it?”  
  
She fixed the Sindarin princess with a probing look, but Lúthien would say no more. Feeling as if she shaped a future, Galadriel answered, “Yes,” as the mirror came to life before her. “Love is always worth its trials.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Sweetheart**  
  
Lúthien smiled often as of late. Once, he had thought to know her every expression - from her genteel smile of the court to the shape of her teasing; the arch of her humor and delight.  
  
 _The fairest-born has a sweetheart_ , Menegroth whispered, and Daeron felt his heart soar with hope. He wrote for long hours into the night, shaping this particular smile into song. Yet, when he followed her to share his composition, her new smile blazed like the stars themselves for _him -_ a Man with mortal days and mortal-dim eyes . . . Devastated, Daeron turned, knowing what he had to do.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Lover**  
  
In the end, it was more than his vow to Barahir that moved Finrod to action - it was Beren's _story_ , his love and his fighting for it. Once, Finrod had advised caution over feeling, and watched his brother mourn his choice for the rest of his days . . . once, Finrod had tuned his back on his own love, even, and now . . .  
  
 _The songs will call me smitten_ , he thought without humor, knowing that he would never return to Nargothrond again . . . and yet, such was the way of songs. He was the knight, not the hero, and this tale was not his ending.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
 **Sister**  
  
Galadriel felt Finrod's death across the distance. It stuck her like an arrow through the heart; stealing her own breath, even as Finrod breathed his last.  
  
 _Findaráto_ , she wept his name in the language of her childhood as she tried to make sense of the sundering within her fëa. Her husband's hands supported her, but she could only see the solemn truth in Melian's expression . . . the guilt haunting Thingol's eyes.  
  
 _Is it worth it to love?_ Lúthien had asked. For Galadriel's answer, she had offered up what was dearest to her, and bore through the pains of her own love in silence.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Wife**  
  
In his effort to keep Lúthien as _daughter_ only, rather than _wife_ , he unwittingly drove her into the heart of Angband and then on to Mandos himself. Now, Lúthien was Beren's bride; dying with every breath she took, her husband's mortality made her own.  
  
For a moment, Thingol could not breathe with the pain rising in his lungs at the thought. He exhaled, trying instead to focus on the love in Lúthien's eyes, lightened from her soul within . . .  
  
“I do not deserve her love, nor her sacrifice,” Beren said gently, his gaze bold. “I know my blessing in having both.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Mother**  
  
Thingol was silent, watching from afar as Melian tenderly touched her daughter's face. “Lúthien would not be the first to live diminished . . . to alter her entire being out of love for one less,” he finally said.  
  
Beren's brow dipped, wondering for insult, before catching the way Melian looked sadly over at her husband. The Maia made Queen was flesh and feeling in that moment, her grief and joy for her daughter plain to see.  
  
“Cherish her,” Thingol inclined his head, passing Beren to attend to his wife. “Perhaps, in time, that alone can atone for the grievances my fear has wrought.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
 **Mark  
  
** A year had passed since their return to life, and yet, instead of rejoicing for the love she knew, Lúthien instead remembered the great price paid for her joy. She remembered Finrod's bravery, and called to mind each of his fallen men . . . She prayed for Daeron her friend, hoping that he found happiness beyond her . . . She prayed for the third son of Fëanor, asking peace for his inferno of a soul . . . She prayed for her own parents, hoping that they knew how _dearly_ she still loved and missed them both  
  
She rose with the dawn, her memorial left for another year.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Choice**  
  
When their son was born, the tips of Dior's ears were pointed. Curiously, Beren touched one delicate tip, wondering . . .  
  
“He shall one day have a choice,” Lúthien answered, “between immortality and the fate of Men.”  
  
Beren felt his throat tighten. The hands holding his child felt as those of a thief. “Lúthien -”  
  
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Know, beloved, that the pain you bear is yours alone. My choice is my joy in life - you and our son.”  
  
Beren was silent, and Lúthien kissed him, hoping that time and love would someday convince him where words could not.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Result**  
  
Ever did Lúthien's birth remain a cherished memory. Thingol remembered how large her eyes were; how small her body. He remembered the strength in her tiny fingers; the shape of her toothless smile.  
  
Dior was smaller than his mother, but stronger somehow – _the blood of Men_ , Melian remarked wryly, even when his grandson was Lúthien's look in entirety.  
  
“Eluchíl,” he offered Dior a second name, meeting his daughter's eyes as if asking a question. For if ever his days reached their number, then Dior would have his throne and kingdom in entirety . . . as surely as the child already had his heart.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Approve**  
  
Nimloth would find no better husband than Dior Eluchíl, heir of Doriath. And yet . . .  
  
“Do you not approve?” Galadriel asked - for with Galathil's death, Nimloth's hand was his to give.  
  
“I do not . . . disapprove,” Celeborn answered. “And yet . . .” he faltered as he sorted through his feelings. “When we have a child of our own, I would be grateful for a son. Better to leave this grief to another father when the time comes.”  
  
“I shall do my best, husband,” Galadriel kissed the corner of his mouth to hide her smile – and Celeborn sighed, realizing that fate had already been wound against him.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Agree  
  
** Nimloth bore her first child on a moonless night, with only the stars above as witnesses. “Elwing,” she named the babe when Galadriel placed her daughter in her arms - looking for her aunt's approval. “Is it silly, to give a child of the trees a name of the sea?”  
  
Galadriel's smile was wry in answer. “A mother's foresight is greater than any Sight I possess,” she gave. Yet, when she touched the child's brow, she could see ocean waves rising like the wings of a bird, with the light of _such a star_ shining above . . .  
  
Yes, Nimloth had chosen wisely indeed.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Curse**  
  
News of the Dwarves' treachery reached Lúthien like a knife to the chest.  
  
A sick tempest of grief filled her as she felt Melian's spirit retreat to Valinor, lost without the anchor of Thingol's soul. Her hands made fists, her eyes became blows; for no mortal blood could then hide the celestial in her veins, the _divine._  
  
She trembled from the urge to cry out with her grief and rage. Was this a mortal weakness, she wondered? Or that of a daughter?  
  
"I cursed them to bury a child," she cried into Beren's chest. "Never did I think to mourn them instead."  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Greed**  
  
Menegroth echoed with lamentations. Bows sang as they were gathered, while swords were a sharp melody as they slid into sheaths. For this was the price of greed, Thranduil thought. This was the price of pride - and it was red.  
  
“You are riding out?” Thranduil asked. Oropher had stood behind the throne when Thingol fell. He still bore his uncle's blood on his hands - he would not wash it away, not until it was joined by the blood of the Naugrim.  
  
“Nogrod's sons will not go unpunished,” was Oropher's only answer . . .  
  
. . . and Thranduil made his decision. “I will go with you.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Destiny**  
  
The first time Elwing saw a Silmaril, her father and grandfather had just returned from battle.  
  
“It is done,” Beren announced, grimly placing the Nauglamír before his wife. Lúthien stared before pushing it away, her mouth an ugly line of loathing.  
  
“Doriath now needs a king,” Lúthien whispered. While she was unable to look at the Silmaril, Elwing could see nothing else.  
  
Dior knelt to kiss his mother's hand, the light of the Silmaril dancing over them like the light from a dream. When they left for Menegroth the next day, it was a memory she carried with her like a treasure.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Recall**  
  
While there were many things Elwing loved about her new home, she loved the dancing most of all. She would twirl through the halls of stone trees, pretending that she was Lúthien Tinúviel herself, while all looked on in fondness for the memory of old captured in the girl's steps.  
  
“Dance with me, ada!” she called the King away from his council – for Dior was ever ready to indulge her, spinning his daughter in graceless circles as Menegroth again filled with laughter.  
  
“Just like her grandmother,” Oropher muttered, lost in his memories, and Celeborn nodded at his uncle, unable to disagree.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Twine**  
  
“C'born pretty!”  
  
The delighted cry greeted her as Galadriel entered to the sight of her husband sitting dutifully before Elwing's careful hands, where the child had taken great care in plaiting his silver hair with ribbons of every color.  
  
Celeborn raised a brow, daring her.  
  
“Pretty indeed, young one,” Galadriel praised gravely.  
  
Celeborn's smile was dangerous. “Aye, Elwing – and your aunt would like nothing better than to have braids to match, wouldn't she?”  
  
Elwing's wide eyes turned hopeful. “Could I?” she breathed in awe.  
  
Galadriel's glare was withering as she sat before the child – unable to refuse. “I would like nothing better.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Grave**  
  
The forests whispered with grief when Lúthien laid down with her husband in the ever-sleep of Men.  
  
Daeron tilted his head, his vigil broken by the lament of the leaves and the ache of the deep roots. A matching pain filled him as he turned the soil for the couple's grave; as he gently wrapped the Silmaril for Dior's care.  
  
When the earth reclaimed its own, Beren and Lúthien side by side forever to stay, Daeron bowed his head and lifted his voice in song, joining the requiem of stars and branches until he had not a song left to sing.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Place**  
  
The Silmaril was a holy light when worn about her husband's throat. And yet, her breath would catch with something other than awe when she noticed the long hours he would spend staring at the looking glass, touching the jewel as one entranced.  
  
“It is dimmer than when my mother wore it,” Dior muttered, putting the gem away for the night.  
  
“Where do you go when the Silmaril takes you?” Nimloth asked on a whisper, but Dior only smiled – amused by her concern.  
  
“I was right here,” he answered. “I never left.”  
  
And yet, Nimloth could not bring herself to believe.  
  
  
  
.

.

  
 **Hut**  
  
The woods outside of Menegroth seemed to go on forever without sight of her brothers. When Elwing at last found them, she swept down to gather them in her arms – even as they protested that they were much too old for such affections.  
  
“Don't scare me like that,” she scolded breathlessly. “Ada would have sent me to live with the Edain in their huts if I came home without you.”  
  
“But you found us,” Elurín pointed out, wiping her kiss from his cheek.  
  
“We were not lost then,” Eluréd reasoned.  
  
“Aye,” Elwing ruffled his hair, “and I always will find you.”  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Room  
  
** Nimloth stood before her sons' rooms, the letter from Maedhros Fëanorian held tight within the fist of her hand. The words crumpled together, but their meaning remained.  
  
“We knew this day would come,” Celeborn stood vigilant by her side. “It was only a matter of time.”  
  
The Sons of Fëanor could ignore their Oath as Dior could ignore his mother's legacy, and yet . . .  
  
“We will make him see reason,” Celeborn stated, but his voice was empty. Hollow.  
  
 _He does not know my husband as I_ , Nimloth thought. Letting the letter fall, she leaned against the doorframe, and listened to her children breathe.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Tent**  
  
Elwing could not sleep that first night after Doriath's destruction, stunned and heart-sore for her loss. In her hands, the Silmaril burned, setting the walls of the tent aflame.  
  
“I was supposed to protect them,” she whispered, remembering the cries of her brothers as the Fëanorians bore them away. “Adar had the whole kingdom to safeguard, but they were _mine_ to protect . . .”  
  
“Child, not a life lost today was through fault of your own,” Celeborn whispered, his eyes mirrors of her grief. When her tears fell, he held her, the Silmaril between them bright enough to challenge even the stars beyond.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Loss**  
  
“Artanis -”  
  
“ - _Galadriel_ , Russandol dear, or have you forgotten?”  
  
Maedhros did not flinch. Instead, he bared his teeth, unrecognizable to her upon Dior's throne. Once, the thought ached, she had called him family.  
  
When they were interrupted by one of his captains, carrying a list of the dead, she listened. Three of Maedhros' brothers had fallen . . . along with Dior and Nimloth . . . and the twins . . .  
  
Sharply, she looked up. “The children?” she hissed. “They posed no threat to your Oath, only Tyelkormo's _pride_ -”  
  
“Watch how you speak of the dead,” Maedhros snapped, but his words were weary – overwhelmed.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Give  
  
** But she had no pity. “Lúthien's Silmaril is now far from here,” Galadriel pushed on. “Doriath is yours now – what remains, at least. Will you allow those without swords to depart? Or will you finish your fine work?”  
  
A heartbeat passed. “Leave, with you and yours,” Maedhros waved sharply. “And yet, know that I will show no quarter next time, _Galadriel_.”  
  
For there _would_ be a next time.  
  
“So be it,” her voice was a whip-crack.  
  
Galadriel did not stay long enough to see him turn, quick to pierce the forest and search for that which should have never been lost.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Shelter**  
  
The ground was cold with snowfall, but it had grown warm with the song of the elf who led them. Walking close enough to his brother so that he could share the heat of their rescuer's cloak, Eluréd stared openly, nearly certain that he knew the voice that sang. He could _feel_ the song in his heart, matching it beat for beat . . .  
  
Elurín asked in a small voice, "Why did you help us?"  
  
The song faltered, and the ground turned cold again. "You have her eyes," the minstrel whispered, nearly too soft for them to hear. "And I never could ignore her pain."  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
 **Refuge** **e**  
  
Elwing quickly grew to love the seashores of Sirion. Often would she walk the sands with Eärendil at her side; he a refugee just as she, making Arvernien his home.  
  
“My mother says that the sea-winds carry the voices of those parted from us,” Eärendil confided when her gaze turned west, “So that we may hear them always.”  
  
Standing where the sand met the surf, Elwing tilted her head. She thought she could hear it then . . . her mother's soft lullabies . . . her father's resonating baritone . . . the giggles of her baby brothers, now gone.  
  
Her throat thick, she whispered, “That . . . I believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elwë** : Thingol  
>  **Artanis** : Galadriel  
>  **Findaráto** : Finrod  
>  **Russandol** : Maedhros  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm


	38. "moving swiftly, ever on"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arathorn/Gilraen || Prompt: _Truth_ , Free-write
> 
> Since I wanted to tackle child!Aragorn for my next prompt, my muse was intrigued by the pairing that got the whole ball rolling. Poor doomed couples really do run in the family, it seems. :(

**Truth**  
  
Autumn had touched the land, burning the leaves of the trees with rust and cooling the heat of the summer with a warning of the winter to come. The fields were gleaned, replenishing their storehouses for the cold season to come. Their dresses turned layered as the winter grew ever nearer, while gloves and scarves were stitched and knitted by careful, mothering hands. The world turned as though touched by fire, burning out to rest as ash until the spring arrived once more. Lost in those last moments of warmth, Gilraen inhaled the season's dying breath and felt her own heart fill.  
  
The riverbed was at the lowest point of the year, even where the rushing Loudwater was joined by the Hoarwell, rushing down from the north. Soon, the calmer straights of the river would freeze with the winter - and then flow with the return of the snow-melt and fresh mountain water in the spring. For now, she stood on the bank, throwing pebbles against the top of the current. Some stones, she could skip. More often than not, they sunk.  
  
Arathorn watched her with something soft coloring his eyes. She had asked him to join her when she first broke from their walk to do so, but his hands were restless that day. He was not made for fine tasks, not then, and so, she hummed and skipped her stones, waiting for her husband to share the burdens of his mind with her. His concerns were many as of late, and she had learned well the wisdom in patience. Her silence would reveal more than any searching query, even when she fairly bristled with a concern to match every unspoken thought that darkened Arathorn's brow. Even sheltered in the angle of the rivers, the weights on the mind of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain were many - with fell folk pushing down from the mountains, sent from their Enemy in the east as they sought Isildur's heir as they always did. Always had it been so, from the first Chieftain to the last, and she knew that the Enemy would not stay his efforts simply because she wished to live with her husband in peace during the time they had to them. She knew the life she had chosen when she had accepted Arathorn's hand, and she was grateful for the years that would belong to them before . . .  
  
She squared her mouth, and threw her last pebble. It sank like a weight beneath the bubbling water, even as she made a face - annoyed that the stone would give in to the pull of the river.  
  
“The current is not made for stones this day,” Arathorn remarked wryly, speaking for the first.  
  
“The river knows its time is short,” Gilraen agreed, pushing a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. The tips of her ears and nose felt pleasantly cold from the fresh air. “The land sings its last song, and the river is old and wise in its ways.”  
  
She walked back to him, swaying to an imaginary melody as she did so. The trees danced on the wind, their great boughs swaying while the leaves swept across the ground like ladies in their fine gowns. The land moved to its own rhythm, and she inclined her ear to listen.  
  
Her husband had a strong stride and sharp eyes. Neither were quite made for dancing, but she still pulled him to spin with her. They had no music but for the cadence of the river and her own humming breath. He humored her through one twirl, and yet, on the second turn he stopped her. His eyes were searching, and so, she stilled. He wished to say something, and she waited for him to speak.  
  
In the end, Arathorn did not share his thoughts with words. Instead, he reached into the pack at his side to hand her a leather holster, carefully tooled to depict a design of a tree with stretching branches. She raised a brow at the gift before pulling the weapon from its sheath, revealing a small dagger with an elegant curve. The blade was swept through with graceful lines – made for beauty as much as it was made with violence in mind. Gilraen frowned at the gift, not understanding his thinking behind it - not entirely.  
  
“This is of elvish make,” she said, waiting for the tale to come from him.  
  
“Yes,” Arathorn confirmed. “Noldorin steel, from Celebrimbor's workshops in Eregion that was. The youngest son of Elrond has his tells when bluffing at cards, and this was the result. However,” he added ruefully, “do make sure you have the right twin before attempting to try as such. I have lost many a favoured bauble to the elder one's machinations.”  
  
“I shall keep that in mind,” Gilraen said wryly in reply. She traced a finger over the flat of the blade, careful to stay away from the edge. “And yet . . .” she was troubled, though she could not say why. She swallowed, trying to find her words.  
  
“Do you know how to use such a thing?” he asked.  
  
“I know that the sharp end goes through flesh,” she said, raising a brow at her own lack of skill. “I can hold a sword, as you know, but I am no shield-maiden.” She always had her father, and her brother while still he stood to hold a sword in his family's defense. When the day turned dark, she could bare her teeth and stand for those she cared about, and yet . . .  
  
“I knew as much,” Arathorn said, his eyes fond with memory. “And yet, a sword will not aid you if you are come upon unaware - not without years dedicated to its learning. This, however, is small. It can fit at your waist, underneath your cloak. You can be quick and clever with this, which is more suiting, I think, than a full sized weapon.”  
  
“You see the use for much steel in the future?” she tried to tease with her words, but they came out shaped with a whisper of fear. She swallowed back the feeling of _soon_ and _borrowed time_ that colored her every day, trying to grasp and cherish each moment as they came.  
  
“Wanting to find a use for steel and acknowledging its inevitability are two different things entirely,” Arathorn said. His mouth turned down in that way that said that he was agitated, fairly crawling within his skin - though not through cause of her. “I do not want you unprotected when that time comes.”  
  
Slowly, Gilraen sheathed the knife again. His eyes followed the blade as it disappeared, flickering to match the overcast sky above. He had lovely eyes, she thought, a stormy shade of grey that decreed him Elros' heir as much as the ring of Barahir did at his finger. They darkened now, grave and lost with black thought.  
  
“You are ill at ease, husband,” she said softly, trying to consider how to best phrase her words. “You have been, ever since I told you . . .” She swallowed, holding one hand to the small curve that now defined her stomach. She kept the hand that held the sheathed blade away, not wanting to hold steel so close to the child growing in her womb. “Such news is a cause for joy, not the fear you now feel.”  
  
“I do know joy for our son,” Arathorn said, moving to cover her hand with his own. Already Ivorwen had touched her daughter's stomach and whispered of the boy child she carried. Arathorn trusted her mother's insight in this, the same as he had trusted her visions about his own future, and now . . . “Yet, you know as well as I that our joy rests on borrowed days. Someday – someday soon – I shall be there for neither you, or our child, and I wish . . .”  
  
For so many things, she knew then. For so many _impossible_ things.  
  
“Someday you shall leave me, it is true,” she agreed. “But all couples face the inevitability of such a parting. Ill is it indeed for the thought of such a sundering to rob you of your joy for the now.”  
  
“And yet, I will not leave you old and grey with many days,” Arathorn countered, his voice quickening with his frustration and coiled energy both. “I shall leave you soon - before our son walks for the first, or maybe even before he speaks his first word. I will not see him grow . . . I will not see him marry . . . I will not see him have sons of his own . . . I will not give to him the heirlooms of his house and explain to him the rich heritage of his people – a heritage that he will raise above this small band of forest-folk, hidden in the wild. I will not see the glory of our people once again restored through his mettle and courage. And, even worse . . . I will not grow old with you. I married a young wife, and I will leave her both a young widow and an even younger mother to a fatherless boy.”  
  
“Our son will never want for guidance, and _never_ will he be left to wonder if he had his father's love,” Gilraen said, setting her mouth in a thin line as she said so. Did he think that she did not know this? Did he think that this thought did not accompany her both as she awakened and laid her head down to rest at night? Did he think that she could _so easily forget?_ “And yet, our time together has no number of days. Why must you see each day as our last?”  
  
“And why must you be so naïve to think that each day is not?” Arathorn returned. While his voice was not harsh, it carried a desperate edge that struck her as if with a blow. She flinched against the weight of his words.  
  
“I knew the truth of our parting when I accepted your hand,” she spoke with a strong voice – needing him to see how much she believed her words. Did he not see how dear they were to her? How they _defined_ her? Her life itself was he and their son, and she would not see him spend the few days they had together mired down with the darkness of his thoughts. “I knew the _truth_ of your fate when my father stood before me and outlined my future in frank, merciless words – _widow_ , _fatherless child_ , I left _alone_ to age and carry on while he who is my _other_ _half_ turned cold in the ground . . . My mother showed to me her visions, holding my hand as her dreams became as a nightmare before my eyes . . . I knew this, and yet, still I married you. These days are dark, and shall grow even darker still, and yet, if I deny happiness – if I deny _love_ , then I have let the shadow not only defeat us on the battlefield, but in my _heart_. And my heart is one place the Enemy cannot touch. It is one thing he cannot conquer, nor shall he ever.”  
  
Her eyes burned as she spoke. Her words tangled on her tongue, graceless as she tried not to let her voice tremble with the strength of her emotions. And yet, _truth_ lingered her every syllable as something tangible, something living. Did he not see that she would take even half of the time she had already spent with him as their all, and consider herself as _blessed_ for knowing such a love?  
  
Gilraen still held the knife in her hand. Her fingers tightened over the hilt as if she could hold him from his fate with the strength of her love alone.  
  
Something softened in her husband's eyes with her speech. The dark grey lightened, as the sun rising behind a blanket of clouds. Arathorn cupped her face in his callused hands, and rested his brow against her own, weary then as she had yet to see him. As always, the knowledge that _she_ , a simple woodsman's daughter, could support this great man, in even the smallest of ways . . . it humbled her. She let out a shaky breath, but her next inhale of air was calm. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she could breath against its rapid beat.  
  
“And this is my truth,” Arathorn whispered gently. “Not only do you carry our hope . . . Do you not know that you _are_ my hope; my joy, my reason for existing, even? I selfishly took you, even when knowing of the future I bound you to. Death is easy, but living . . . _living_ is another thing entirely. I want to die knowing that my family is safe in every possible way, and if a small bit of steel can mean even the slightest bit of a difference . . .”  
  
In the smallest of ways, through his teachings, he could continue to protect her, she understood then. In this way, even if only this way, he would never leave her. When she kissed him, unable to respond to such an admission with any form of words, her mouth was as desperate as his was hard - as if she could breathe him in and keep him with her through the force of her love alone. The onset of winter lost its appeal to her as she clung to him, and _wished_ . . .  
  
It was a long moment before she drew away from him. Her mouth was bruised and her cheeks were flushed, and yet she still shared his breath. Gilraen drew the blade from its sheath again, even as tiny snowflakes started to dot the air. She understood now. And she was ready.  
  
“Show me what you will, then,” she said, meeting his eyes. Her gaze was steady, resolute. “I want to learn.”  
  
Slowly, Arathorn stepped back from her. His hand came down to cover her own. “You start,” he said carefully, arranging her fingers about the hilt with a gentle hand, “Like this.”


	39. "growing hope next to bones"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elladan & Elorhir & Aragorn & Elrond || Prompt: _Hope_ , Free-write
> 
> When we first got the extended edition of _The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey_ , the first thing I looked for in the Rivendell scenes was a ten year old Aragorn running around - even if just for a second. And when we weren't given that, this story immediately sprang to mind. When I finally had an obvious prompt to write it to, I seized my opportunity. That said, this mingles together book-canon with movie-canon when it comes to the White Council and Sauron's reveal and what not - hence the discrepancies with the film - but I hope you enjoy it even still. Other things, like Rivendell's founding where the Eagles are concerned, and Elladan's preference for the fate of Men (hey - his name means _man-elf_ , and if such a name was given with insight . . . ) is my own conjecture, filling in the holes the original story left. :) 
> 
> This one really got away from me in length, so there will be a second part to this piece coming up next. The tale isn't quite done here.

**Hope**  
  
There were times when Elladan imagined that he could feel the weight of his every year.  
  
Each millennium seemed to line his lungs, coloring each breath he took. Each century was carved into his bones. Each decade was written upon his skin, and the years themselves . . . While many of the Edhil were aware of the stillness of their days, there were few who toiled underneath its weight as those who also bore the blood of mortal Men in their veins. He imagined that could _feel_ time as a near tangible entity . . . moving slowly, ever on.  
  
Sometimes, it seemed that only a year ago he had sat in Arador's house and watched as Arathorn took his first steps. It seemed that only months ago that he and Elrohir had toasted Arathorn at his wedding, and wished he and his bride every happiness in the time they had to them. Was it not but weeks since he had touched Gilraen's pregnant stomach and declared that Arathorn would be blessed with a strong and wise son? Merely days ago had Aragorn been a wide eyed babe, staring curiously up from his swaddling clothes as his mother drew him beneath the shelter of Imladris for the first. Gilraen had been little more than a child herself, and already she was dressed in widow's robes and pale with disbelief for the loss of her husband.  
  
Days, it but felt, and yet . . .  
  
The child who ran past them on the mountain path was growing, and growing much too quickly at that. Already ten summers had passed, and the child Aragorn - whom they called Estel - was already tall and strong for his age. With his black hair curling wild and unruly about his face, and his grey eyes gravely shaped, but laughing, Estel was the picture of a healthy and happy child. And yet, he seemed to rush on all too quickly for the mantle of a man . . . and the hardships his later years and birthright would bring.  
  
The summer was at its pinnacle. In Imladris now left behind, the midsummer’s revelries would be at their height, even if they would be observed away from home this year. When Mithrandir had come upon the Last Homely House, a curious company of dwarves and one hobbit in tow, it had been deemed necessary to take the last heir of Isildur into the wild for his safekeeping. Though Thorin and his folk were no threat to the son of Arathorn, it would only take one misplaced whisper by a dwarf happy to share a tale for Aragorn's location to be revealed and then spread where it ought not be. The line of Elendil's sons tended to meet early and bloody ends through the machinations of the Enemy, who hated the last of the Faithful as he hated none other in Middle-earth - and they would take no chances.  
  
Coinciding with Gandalf's return to the valley was the White Council gathering to discuss the presence of the Dark Maia, long returned to Dol Guldur and ever growing in power as he searched for that which had been lost to him . . . Yes, it was wise indeed to take Aragorn away until Rivendell was their own once more. There were those on the council, even, whom they did not trust with Aragorn's true identity and location . . . and trusted little more still as the years passed.  
  
It had been his grandmother's bidding to hide Aragorn, and all had been quick to heed the counsel of Galadriel, steeped in foresight as it was. Aragorn himself had been all excitement and breathless delight at the idea of leaving the valley with his 'brothers' – for the time they spent in Imladris and not out amongst the Dúnedain was all but precious to him, and jealously coveted. The child had only sobered in order to solemnly ask his mother's permission to depart – which a quiet Gilraen had been quick to grant. Midsummer’s Eve marked the anniversary of her wedding, and what was a time of rejoicing for others was a time of mourning for the widowed Chieftess.  
  
After seeking his mother's permission, Aragorn had apologized to Lindir, and eagerly asked if the song the minstrel had been teaching him to preform at the festivities could be sung at the next solstice – to which the singer had fondly agreed. More than hope, Aragorn was a breath of fresh air and _life_ to all who lived in the valley, and there were fond faces aplenty who watched their leaving – even as their sentinels set out underneath his father's command to seek where Gandalf and his company had been waylaid by Orcs at the Hidden Pass . . .  
  
The days were growing more and more strange as they hurried on towards shadow, Elladan could not help but think. Orcs and other creatures of the Enemy daring to come so close to the valley? The Greenwood sickening with spider-webs, and rotted by the shadow stretching across its roots and soil? Then there was Dol Guldur itself, growing in darkness as the sky would give way to the onset of the night . . . Events were rushing on towards their inevitable conclusion with a finality that was violent in its intensity and shocking in its audacity. And yet, even with the days darkening about them, there was still laughter . . . there was still light . . . _hope_ , found in the eyes of a child and his simple, unsullied joy for the world around him.  
  
Aragorn knew no cause for sorrow, not as sheltered as he was. He only knew that there was a reason that his mother would look to the west, her eyes lost to memory. He knew that his name was not his own; rather, it was _more_ , and someday a great destiny was to be his. But, until the day when he was Aragorn once more, he was simply _Estel_. And Estel was a child, with a child's simple joys and wonders for the world and its living.  
  
Throughout the first few days of their journey, it became apparent that the blood of his Ranger father ran strong in his veins. Estel had a knack for picking out tracks on the forest floor. He could identify the songs of the birds, and name the plants and growing things as they passed. He was light on his feet for a human child, almost fey in his step, and the forest seemed to part in order to allow him to pass.  
  
Elrohir tweaked the curved shell of his ear and called him _Laiquendi_ in approval when he found a hart's hoof-print in the ground. Estel's face flushed with the praise, and he held his head high at the compliment, walking through the wood as if he truly w as one of the Green-elves of old - one with the forest and its ways.  
  
When they finally tracked the hart to its place, they found a magnificent animal with a wrack of antlers that was wider than the span of his arms. Instead of the warm, brown-red fur they normally found on the deer in the valley, this one had a coat of the palest brown, almost silver-white in shade. His eyes were old and wise as he dipped his crown to them, as regal as any king upon his throne. They did not reach for the bows upon their back – they had no need to. They had dried rations aplenty for their journey, and the Last Homely House was stocked to abundance in every way.  
  
And yet, even if they were in need . . . there was an old soul in the animal before them. Yavanna's own eyes seemingly stared out from the face of the proud creature before he stepped back into the forest shade, and was gone.  
  
Estel was able to speak of little else as they moved on, traveling to where the trees gave way to a series of rocky clearings. At the clearing's edge, great cliffs pierced the land, and water spilled from their crests to stream on to the rivers below. There were caves aplenty in the rock, all stocked with food and supplies and weapons and anything else one could think of. The cliff-side was marked with targets, as were many of the smaller rock formations – this being one of the outposts where Glorfindel took the young elves of his guard to teach them the sword and the bow; the wild and its ways.  
  
Both he and his brother had learned to aim true in this very clearing, so many centuries ago, Elladan remembered with fondness. Now, it was Estel's turn.  
  
The human child had been gifted with a bow of the Galadhrim when Galadriel and Celeborn had first arrived in the valley for the meeting of the White Council. Celeborn had knelt and solemnly explained the great heritage of the bow, and the legacy that came with such an owning. Though not his grandson in blood, Estel was his grandson in heart, and the same fondness Elladan remembered from his grandfather in days past was now bestowed upon Estel. Estel had bowed carefully to Celeborn, and then he did the same to Galadriel. Her eyes had twinkled as the boy's bow deepened, and she must have felt something that they did not - for a moment later Galadriel knelt and opened her arms, and Estel eagerly accepted her embrace, thanking her sincerely for the gift all the while.  
  
Celeborn had been the one to introduce the basics of archery to Estel, just as he had for he and his siblings. As a prince of Doriath, Celeborn had been taught by Beleg Strongbow himself, and few were the elves of Middle-earth who could match him. Whenever the matter was brought up during his visits, Thranduil of the Green-wood _said_ that he could, but they had never actually _seen_  the Sindar-king do so – and so, Elladan held on to his familial pride, and considered his grandfather the best archer of his acquaintance.  
  
Glorfindel had circled the clearing as Celeborn went about Estel's first lesson, casually offering suggestions. He did so more to tickle Celeborn's ear than to aid Estel – to which Celeborn had icily informed him that when they needed help teaching Balrog slaying, and _dying,_ then he could offer his counsel to his heart's content. Glorfindel's laughter had been merry in reply, but he lingered even so - the uncanny light from his eyes giving the child strength even when he realized it not.  
  
Taking strength from more than Glorfindel's Valar given brilliance, Estel searched out Elrond's eye with every step of his learning. He looked for approval in his foster-father's eyes, and found it easily. Since their mother's departure, the only time when Elrond was truly content was when there was a child to foster in the valley. While he came to love each of the Chieftains of the Dúnedain as they grew in his household, there was something different about Aragorn. Aragorn had no family to return to upon reaching his majority; he had no kindred awaiting the end of his childhood with eager eyes and baited breath. Aragorn was as a true son of the valley, and even with the . . . difficulties that came with loving one of such short days, loved he still was, and loved dearly by all.  
  
And now . . .  
  
“Not bad,” Elladan praised as Estel's last arrow struck the outer ring of the target. Few arrows were a central hit, but all but one arrow struck the target itself – which was more important in the beginning than one luckily shot arrow hitting the center while the rest went astray.  
  
“I would almost go as far to say you are a natural,” Elrohir mused as he gathered the arrows, walking them back so that Estel could try again.  
  
“You are almost as good as Arwen was when she first started,” Elladan picked up the end of his brother's sentence, continuing his thought. “Only, do not tell the lady I said so - for her pride in her abilities is already great enough as it is. She is even better than Elrohir, I would say.”  
  
“She may _think_ she is better,” Elrohir protested, miffed. “They are two different things entirely.”  
  
“Is she better than you, Elladan?” Estel asked innocently as he refilled his quiver.  
  
He made a face. “I prefer the sword to the bow, and thus, it is hard to compare the two.”  
  
“Which means,” Elrohir said dryly, “That she is ten times better.”  
  
“ _Arwen_ ,” Estel carefully shaped the name, as if testing its weight. He looked up with curious grey eyes as he said so – Lúthien's bright eyes, which had failed to leave the king's line since Elros himself. “She is the Lady of Imladris, is she not?” he asked, his head tilted thoughtfully.  
  
Elladan blinked, taken aback by hearing his mother's title from so young a mouth. “Yes,” he answered carefully, speaking with a suddenly dry throat – for the sunlight and the child before him were reason enough to keep his thoughts from straying to darker places. “I do suppose that she could be called so, though we never have. We simply call her _sister_.”  
  
“And, in that, we must confess that we have a secondary reason for furthering your skills,” Elrohir said, turning Estel's attention back to him. More empathetic than Elladan, he easily felt his twin's dip in feeling. Elladan stood up straighter as his twin touched his spirit with his own, imparting of his own peace and strength. As always, he felt centered in the wake of his brother's light – the two of them stronger with the other than apart.  
  
“You see,” Elladan picked up his twin's words again, circling Estel as he took aim – adjusting his arm and tilting his chin up so that it was level with the ground. “Our sister is uncommonly fair -”  
  
“ - Lúthien reborn, some would say - ” Elrohir added, fixing the child's fingers on the bow.  
  
“ - the evening star to Lúthien's morning star; lightening the night sky as the other heralded the dawn,” Elladan gave with mock exaggeration, as if he were a bard singing in the Hall of Fire.  
  
“Thus so, we have an unfortunately difficult time in keeping her would-be suitors in their place.”  
  
“After all, we are only two -”  
  
“ - and her admirers are many,” Elrohir lamented.  
  
“Thus, we seek to recruit you,” Elladan explained, “to aid us in keeping the wolves at bay once she returns from Lothlórien.”  
  
“ . . . at least,” Elrohir amended, “Until Arwen stops torturing them, and picks one herself.”  
  
“Yes,” Elladan made a face, “She would not appreciate our 'interference' then, even when done for the best.”  
  
Elrohir gave a rueful snort, shaped in memory. “What say you, Estel Elrondion? Will you help us on this most solemn of tasks? May we count on you?”  
  
The child's grey eyes were set gravely up on his face. He nodded regally, already possessing a shadow of his glory to come as he said, “I so accept this task, and vow to take on your fight as my own.”  
  
“Good man,” Elladan praised, clapping his back to say that he was set, and then -  
  
Estel let the arrow go, and found the center of the target.  
  
  
  
.

.

  
They continued practicing until the boy's arms tired him. Afterward, they took a path down from the caves to where a thin waterfall fell into a rippling pool of clear water. The lake was a bright, jeweled shade of blue, warm in its shallow places and refreshingly cool in the deep waters by the cascade. The small lake was a favorite of many in the valley, and already well known to Aragorn. The child wasted little time in pulling off his outer garments and putting his pack aside so that he could dive into the pool from the rocks overlooking the water. He gave a small whoop of excitement – which was followed by a splash and a higher pitched cry when he surfaced, exclaiming at the cool temperature of the water.  
  
Elladan and Elrohir were quick to follow with the same routine – which included surfacing to gasp at the shock of the cold water. It only took a few moments to acclimate to the temperature change, and acclimate quickly – for Aragorn did not give them a moment before he was attacking them with splashes. Such a provocation, of course, led to an all out war between them for the better part of the next hour. When Elrohir later tried to leave the water and doze like a cat in the sun, he and Estel filled their water skins with the cold water from the deep end of the pool and poured them out on the unsuspecting elf – which started the whole thing all over again.  
  
By the time they were building a fire and preparing their supper for that night, Estel was pleasantly exhausted. He held his hands before the warmth of the flames, quiet in the wake of spending his energy. In the setting light, a figure of a massive bird took shape in the red sky, its great wings set aflame by the flickering of the dying sun above. One bird came, and then another, singing their song to the mountains below. Their caws echoed against the stone, dancing up and down their spines with the power of their cries.  
  
“The Eagles of Manwë,” Elrohir, whose eyesight was sharper than his own, espied. “We should view them as a sign of good fortune.”  
  
Estel looked up with wide eyes as the Eagles circled, searching for their supper on the land below. “They have their nests near to here,” Elladan explained to Estel's wide eyes – for this was the first that the child had seen Manwë's great messengers in the sky. “They roost all over the Misty Mountains, but Gwaihir's kindred nest very close to here. We are blessed with this sighting.”  
  
The Eagles figured in many of the tales Estel heard while learning his histories, Elladan knew. Even after so many years of living underneath their shadows, he still knew wonder and respect for the Wind-lords. And yet, he once again found himself looking at something long familiar anew through the child's eyes. Estel's awe was refreshing, and he could not help but share it.  
  
“Did you know,” Elrohir started his tale while Estel stared unblinkingly at the Eagles above, “that the Eagles led us to settle in the valley, back in the Second Age?”  
  
Estel shook his head. The fire cast flickering shapes in his eyes as he stared up at the sky. The Eagle's calls echoed through the stone of the cliffs. He could feel them sing in the chamber of his chest; his ribs echoing the sound and his heart absorbing it. They had been noticed, he knew, and the Eagles flashed their great wings to show off for the child below.  
  
“You know the war of Sauron and the Elves of Eriador,” Elrohir said. “You have been studying your histories with Lindir, I know. Where did last you leave off?”  
  
“Annatar, who was Sauron in fair form, was trying to find the location of the Rings from the Elf-smith Celebrimbor,” Estel recited the words dutifully. “Celeborn roused the forces of Eregion to confront Sauron's army, but they were few, and only escaped alive for Elrond and his army of the High-king's men from Lindon.”  
  
“And after?” Elrohir prompted, nodding at the correct recitation.  
  
“Their forces were overrun,” Estel shaped each word carefully. His brow furrowed, darkening at admitting that two of his life's heroes could be moved to retreat – even if that retreat was from Sauron's black host out of Mordor. Those battles had been the first time that Sauron had wielded the One Ring in combat, and to devastating effect.  
  
“They retreated,” Estel continued, “and yet, Sauron was distracted from giving pursuit by a combination of Elves from Lothlórien and Dwarves from Moria, attacking the rear of his army. They fled north into the mountains, and then . . .” Estel's story tapered off. He looked up, unsure.  
  
“That is where the Eagles come in,” Elrohir took over for the child. “No longer were they just an army seeking a place to regroup and regather themselves. Now the refugees from Eregion were being protected underneath Gil-galad's banner – families, women and children, were there too. Many of the wood-elves had been roused from their places, and Men living in the foothills and the plains had been scourged from their homes. We had a great host to seek shelter from the oncoming winter – and Mankind in particular would not survive the cold without suitable relief from the elements. When Glorfindel and Erestor were scouting in the peaks for a suitable place to hide from Sauron, the Eagles circled above, and Glorfindel – knowing the light of the Valar better than any other – knew to follow them. They followed, and were led to a hidden place in the mountains - a valley of falling water, able to be found only by those who knew where to look. While Imladris was first founded as a temporary settlement and outpost in wartime, it ended up being a permanent establishment for Gil-galad's power in the east of his realm. After Gil-galad's death, and with so few of our kind remaining in this land, Rivendell is now a last haven for any who seek to use it as such – and it will remain so until our folk fade completely from these shores.”  
  
Estel listened carefully to every word Elrohir said, his face solemn as he continued to stare up above. The Eagles called one last time before circling lower and lower still, their prey spotted for the night. When the sun set completely, they began their hunt, winking out of sight even as their last cries echoed in the mountains.  
  
Even when the last Eagle left, Estel still searched the sky, hoping to catch a last glimpse. Elladan watched him, bemused for his fascination.  
  
“It is a mark of passage for young elves in the valley to climb the peaks to the Eagle's nests,” Elladan said next, enjoying the look of eager anticipation that lit the child's face. “If you ask kindly, they will let you into their perch, and even gift you with a feather. We both did so when we were about your age.”  
  
At last, Estel tore his eyes from the heavens to look at them with wide eyes. “Am I old enough now?” he asked.  
  
Elrohir gave a thoughtful look. Tilting his head, he narrowed his brow in exaggerated consideration before reaching out to hold his hand an inch or so above Estel's head. “When you are about this tall, I think,” he said. “Soon you shall be ready, but not yet.”  
  
Estel sat up straighter, as if trying to appear taller before their eyes. “Now?” he questioned, and Elrohir laughed.  
  
“You will be ready soon enough, child – and much too soon for our tastes, at that,” Elrohir said, sadness touching the corner of his mouth with his words. Already the child grew quickly . . . so quickly. Elladan remembered both Arathorn and Arador his father as young men, eager for their years to come. He remembered Argonui before them both, taken by the Fell Winter, and Arathorn the first, taken by the Wolves . . . He remembered Arassuil once laughing as a child through Elrond's halls . . . he laughed as Arahad had laughed, as Aravorn had laughed, as _Aragost_ had laughed . . . over and over again as the heirs of Elros lived and died before their eyes.  
  
Before a blinking, Aragorn would be old and grey with years - and that was if he was allowed to live his life without the Enemy finding him first . . .  
  
And yet, now was not the time to think such things, for Aragorn was still _Estel_ now, and would be for many years. Elladan breathed in deep, and let his breath out slow.  
  
“It takes too long, this waiting,” Estel complained, laying down with a sigh against his bedroll. He stared up the cliffs, to where the nests of the Eagles rested, proud in the starlight.  
  
“So it always seems to the young,” Elrohir said, reaching out to fondly ruffle the child's hair.  
  
Elladan was silent as Elrohir glanced at him, trying to keep his own thoughts at bay lest Estel sense them. Empathetic as any elf was the mortal-child, and he did not want to give the boy dark thoughts to think.  
  
“Sleep,” Elrohir soothed when Estel's eyes narrowed with a familiar stubbornness – a line knotting his brow that went back to Finwë himself, Elladan imagined. “Today was long, and tomorrow will be much the same. Your coveted growing will be done much while you slumber.”  
  
A long moment passed – during which Elladan half expected the child to sit up and argue the merits of climbing to the nests that very night. Elrohir simply smiled benignly, bearing through the challenge, and at long last, Estel nodded. He turned over, and closed his eyes. Though he at first looked mulish at the thought of sleep, it did not take him long to succumb to it – the last two weeks having done much to test the child's strength and endurance both.  
  
Elrohir was silent until Aragorn's breath deepened and his brow smoothed. He ran a fond hand through the child's hair and hummed gently beneath his breath to encourage fair dreams. Elladan watched them as the fire flickered, its light waning as they let it dim for the night.  
  
“He looks more and more like Arathorn with each passing day,” Elrohir muttered. He touched the boy's brow one last time, discreetly deepening his sleep. Elladan sat to the side and watched - Elrohir having inherited their father's skills with healing, while he was more of a blunt force with his own talents.  
  
“It is good that he does,” Elladan said after a moment. He meant his words, even as they came with a pang of their own. “I do not wish to forget him.”  
  
In that way, Elendil was immortal, Elladan thought - for they would remember each son of his line, one after another, deep into the later days. They could do nothing else.  
  
Elrohir was silent for a long moment, during which Elladan did not meet his eyes. He did not need his twin to coddle him, not now, and his energies were better spent on augmenting the child's strength as they went through the wild.  
  
“I will take first watch,” Elrohir finally said, allowing him to keep to himself. The link that ever bound their spirits dimmed for a moment.  
  
He stood to walk the perimeter of their camp, and Elladan let him go. Even though they were still safe within the valley's wards, dark things moved in the night, and the Enemy's forces grew ever the more daring as the years went on. They would not take even the smallest of risks with Elendil's last heir, and so, Elladan closed his eyes to get what sleep he could before he would awaken and allow his brother to rest.  
  
It did not take him long to lose himself to dreams, and yet, he was not sleeping for long before he was pulled awake by a jolt of awareness from his twin.  
  
Instantly, he was alert, his eyes searching the shadows in the dim light left by the embers from the fire. He found Elrohir kneeling by Aragorn's bedroll – his empty bedroll, he saw, unease instantly filling him.  
  
Elrohir glanced to him, his eyes narrowed. “I heard a noise further off,” he explained. “I left to investigate, and upon returning he was gone.”  
  
Elladan stood, warning biting at his bones as he searched their camp. “He could simply be attending to nature,” he gave the possible explanation, even without believing it.  
  
“He took his pack with him,” Elrohir pointed out.  
  
He _left_ , he was not _taken_ then, Elladan tried to puzzle through the riddle before remembering the odd glow in Aragorn's eyes before he went to sleep . . . his troubled gaze . . . his eyes on the Eagles . . .  
  
“You do not think . . .” he started, even as Elrohir set his mouth.  
  
“Yes, I do think,” Elrohir answered grimly.  
  
Elladan circled the camp, but the child's clever attempts at trying to hide his tracks were for not.  
  
“This way,” he pointed out the small boot-prints leading to the cliffs beyond. He felt a sinking weight in his stomach as he thought about the dangers to be found in climbing the steep paths in the dark. And Estel was still a child, with a child's strength, no matter his skills for his age.  
  
“Why would he go off like this?” Elrohir muttered as they tracked him in the dark, speaking more to himself than to him. “It does not make any sense – and it is quite unlike him, at that.”  
  
Elladan thought of the restlessness in his own bones, his unease with his days. He thought of Aragorn growing so fast, as a green sapling shooting upwards to vainly try to pierce a canopy of oak trees. In the vaguest ways, he thought that he could understand.  
  
And yet . . .  
  
“I do not know,” he answered, and then concentrated on following the child's path through the wood in silence. He did not know, and the _why_ did not yet matter. All that mattered was that Aragorn was attempting the foolish and the dangerous while past where he could shield the child and keep him safe. He had promised Arathorn that he would protect his son where he could not, he had promised his own father, and . . .  
  
 _“I shall_ _return to you_ _, Peredh_ _e_ _l,”_ He could still hear his mother's teasing voice if he all but closed his eyes. He remembered Celebrían touching the furrowed line between his father's brow as if she could sooth it away with her touch. _“You act as if the road should swallow me whole.”  
  
“_ _W_ _e shall keep her safe,_ _Adar – you have my word,_ _”_ he remembered vowing, meaning his every word and feeling so very tall underneath the faith their father had in them both, and then -  
  
No . . . it was best not to think of that now.  
  
Elrohir looked over at him, having felt the memory and sharing it as his own. This time Elladan let his twin calm him through their spirit's bond. He needed to keep a cool mind and a calm head right now, not -  
  
They came to the edge of the green, where the ground dropped off to the side of a cliff wall, plunging down to where the river roared on strong and swift below. The stream and lake they had swam in earlier turned into a strong waterfall here, rushing on to join the river below. The tumbling water coated the rock with a thin layer of slippery moss and mist, making the steep cliff all the more perilous. There were stubborn and hardy evergreens growing from the rock wall below – great and strong trees where there could possibly be nests, though it was hard to tell in the dark. The crescent moon above was not nearly enough light to see by when attempting to scale such an uneven terrain. He felt his heart drop when he saw where a rope had been tied around a small tree on the edge of the shelf, and draped over the side of the cliff. The tree did not look sturdy enough at all for his taste, and even the cliff-edge itself felt unstable underneath his feet – made weak from so many years of holding up the cascade as it fell. This was _not_ the place to embark on a climb, he thought grimly. It was not the place _at all_. _  
_  
He gave a mannish curse underneath his breath as he ran forward to kneel at the lip of the cliff. “Estel!” he called over the edge, peering down into the shadow to see where a small figure clung to the cliff-side. “Estel, can you hear me?”  
  
“Elladan?” Estel's voice was small from below. “Elladan, is that you?”  
  
Relief bit through his heart, even as the fear rose again. “Estel,” he called again, noticing that the rope was lax – the child's weight did not rest upon it. “Are you stuck?” he asked, dreading the answer even as he searched for it.  
  
“The rope was not long enough to reach the trees,” Estel answered after a moment – fear and the desire to not admit his error both giving his voice pause. “I thought that I had footholds enough to let go, and yet . . .”  
  
He could infer the rest, Elladan thought grimly.  
  
Elrohir was already inspecting the rock. “It will not hold us both,” he already planned the best way to help the child. “It would not be worth the risk.”  
  
“I am the better climber, at any rate,” Elladan waved his hand. “Go back to the caves, and get more rope. I will help Estel down to the trees, and then you can help pull us up.” It was the best he could think of on such short notice. Where Glorfindel camped with his guard, there were supplies for climbing aplenty – and ropes and gear enough to tackle worse places in the mountains than this.  
  
Elrohir did not hesitate to agree with him. He only touched his shoulder in acknowledgment, and then turned to sprint back towards the caves. Their bond was open and full between their minds, letting them share strength and encouragement aplenty – and letting Elrohir know of his progress, at that.  
  
Elladan took a deep breath, and looked over the edge again. “I am coming down,” he called to Aragorn, “And together we will then make it to the trees. Just hold on.”  
  
“Okay,” Estel's reply was muffled against the rock, and the tremor in the voice steeled his resolve more than anything else.  
  
Careful of the loose rock, he lowered himself over the edge, and sought out handholds and footholds in the dark. He was stronger than the human child by far, and he had spent centuries in the mountains. He was able to find his way down relatively quickly as a result. He could feel the tired and old stones speak underneath his hands. The cliff was weary of its weight, he thought, hearing as a voice sounded deep within the rock. The cascade cried out as it swam towards the river, the falling water making the cliff wet and hard to grasp. He felt unease fill him as he peered down to the trees below, wondering if they would even be able to make it that far – where the branches would allow Estel to rest his arms until Elrohir came for them.  
  
But he could not think about that yet. He pushed the thought aside as he came to the edge of the rope. The small human was clinging to the rock a few feet beneath the rope's end with bloodless fingertips, his face pressed against the stone and his arms quivering with the effort to hold himself in place against the vertical surface.  
  
“I can't feel my fingers,” Estel admitted in a small voice when Elladan came to perch on the cliff next to him. That voice, more than anything else, caused worry to pierce his gut – he having ever known strength and eagerness from Aragorn, no matter the situation. He found a good hold with his left arm, and with his right he held a hand out for the boy.  
  
“Here,” he gestured. “Grab on to me.”  
  
Estel eyed him dubiously, but Elladan gestured again. “I can carry us both,” he assured the child. “You just have to trust me.”  
  
He did not have to say more than that. Nodding solemnly, his eyes steeling in the half-light from the moon, Estel gave up his desperate hold on the rock to reach out for him. Elladan helped him swing over, feeling as the child's arms wrapped around his neck, and his face burrowed in relief against his hair. He swallowed, not wanting to tell Estel that the worst was still before them.  
  
The rock was awakening underneath them. He pressed his forehead against the cliff, asking for it to hold itself together just a little while longer. The rock trembled and the cascade sang, but neither could promise what they could not do.  
  
Taking in a deep breath, he found another foothold, and lowered himself down the cliff-face. Their travel was slow, painstakingly so with the dark and the wet stone, but he moved as quickly as he could without endangering them both. He felt Elrohir's progress in his mind – his twin had reached the caves, but had not started back yet.  
  
They were nearly upon the trees. Elladan looked, and saw where there was one large nest resting high in the branches, for the tree was old and set into the deep of the rock. Even if the face of the cliff fell, the tree would still stand tall with the new shape the waterfall made. He breathed out, seeing where a second tree grew out rather than up – holding its branches out over the river, still some ways below. The river was too far away for them to jump as a last case scenario, and after the shelf that the trees grew from, the cliff was much too steep for him to be comfortable climbing on his own - Elladan did not think that he could climb it with the child clinging to his back.  
  
He breathed in again, and told himself to focus simply on getting to the trees – he could think further then.  
  
By the time they made it to the branches, the cliff was all but screaming from its effort to hold itself together. Elrohir was running as fast as he could, the forest helping him form his path as he sped back to them. Any more weight, and the rock would give completely, he thought as he helped Estel grasp the branch and pull himself into a sitting position. He let the child rest on the strong limbs as he looked above to where the shelf was weakening. Even Elrohir stepping forward to pass them the rope could be too much. Even if he tried to pull up Estel alone . . .  
  
His brow furrowed, not liking the options that were left to him in the least.  
  
Estel pressed his forehead against the tree, squeezing his eyes closed and refusing to look down at the river below. “Now, we wait?” he asked.  
  
“I'm afraid that it is not that simple,” he said grimly. “The cliff will not be able to hold us going back up.”  
  
Estel blinked at him. “But I thought . . . Elrohir was getting more rope?”  
  
He shook his head. “The cliff warns even now that it holds itself together for us only.”  
  
Estel swallowed, glancing down at the churning river far below. “Then . . .”  
  
“ . . . we must be very careful with what we are about to do,” Elladan acknowledged, trying to calm the child with his voice, even as he felt his own worry rise in his mind. _Very careful, and very lucky_ , he thought, but did not say. _Very lucky indeed_ . . .  
  
“What do you need me to do?” Estel asked, biting his lip and meeting his eye bravely. Though Elladan was tense and no small amounts of cross at the child for embarking on such a venture alone in the dark, he did feel pride fill him for the way he looked on their predicament, ready to do whatever was needed to be done.  
  
Over the lip of the cliff, he felt Elrohir approach. His twin had already felt his intentions at his mind, and while he did not like his decision . . . he understood. They had no other choice.  
  
“The rock will fall,” he explained calmly to Estel. “The rockslide will not let us climb either up nor down, and so -”  
  
He pointed to the tree that was growing out over the river – the white waters of the Bruinen churning some distance beneath them.  
  
Elrohir got as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, and he felt him touch his mind when he threw the rope down. Elladan spied up, and saw the silvery thread glint in the moonlight. He held a hand out, and caught the rope, gathering the long length into a coil as he made his way through the branches. He picked a path first, looking back to see that Estel followed him, careful as he moved from the first tree to the second. Climbing slowly, they were able to move out along the tree trunk – where Elladan tied the rope, and let it fall to dangle over the river. The end of the rope would put them at a safe enough height to jump into the river from – though it would still be an uncomfortable fall. The swift currents and the sharp, rocky shore carved out from the swirling eddies was _not_ where he wanted to swim, and yet, their odds were better with them swimming on their own accord, rather than their dealing with the rock-slide pushing them forcibly into the river.  
  
He felt the cliff give a warning, and he knew that they had no time to waste. He did not want to be near to here when the cliff slid into the water – which would make their navigating the river very perilous indeed. Impossibly so.  
  
“I am going to climb down first,” he said, trying to sooth the fear in the child's eyes with his words. He wished that he had Elrohir's talents as he tried to touch the boy's mind with his determination and trust in his skills both. “That way, if you slip, I will be able to catch you. Take your time, and focus on the climb – just one movement at a time, okay?”  
  
Estel nodded after a moment, biting his lip as he pushed his fear away. Once again, Elladan felt pride fill him for the brave front that the boy was putting on. “Alright,” he ruffled his hair once before going down on the rope, swinging himself from the branch and hanging perilously over the white waters below.  
  
“Slowly and surely,” he called up as Estel swung down to join him. “This is not a race.”  
  
The boy closed his eyes for a moment before he told his tired arms to start climbing. Elladan glanced above to see that Elrohir was already taking the trails down to the riverbank below – ready to help them both from the water when they would need it. “Look at your hands, not at the water,” he called when Estel glanced down – so far down.  
  
“It is okay,” he assured the child above him. “It is not natural to dangle in the air like this. Fear, however, _is_ natural. Being afraid does not mean that you are any less than you should be.”  
  
He saw Estel nod, and then his climbing took on a new determination. Fear was natural, and would ever be with you. It was what you did with the fear that mattered, and Estel was handling his admirably.  
  
Then he looked up, hearing as the cliff groaned aloud. They did not have much longer – a few minutes, perhaps. He looked down, seeing that they were still at a dangerous height to jump from. But soon, it would not matter.  
  
They continued with their painstakingly slow progress, and this time when the cliff groaned, Estel could hear it too.  
  
“Elladan?” he called, his voice taking on a tremor.  
  
“Now we need to go faster, Estel,” he hated to rush the child, but they had no choice. “As fast as you can.”  
  
They scurried down the rope, and yet, it was not fast enough. Small stones were breaking loose, coming down to strike the water below. They had run out of time. As the cliff groaned – apologizing as it took its last breath, Elladan reached up to grab the child, tucking him in close to his body as he let them both fall. He made sure he struck the water first - for his elven bones were stronger than Estel's mortal frame, and though the shock _hurt_ his back and shoulder as they crashed through the surface, he did not feel any permanent damage as they sunk. He forced his body into motion, kicking mightily for the surface and carrying Estel with him as he did so.  
  
He gulped in a breath when they broke the surface, trying to adjust to the icy chill of the mountain water – the river here having poured down from the melting snow high on the summit. He had another worry hit him when it came to how long Estel would fare in the cold water, but he had no time to think about that now – not when the boulders were growing bigger and bigger, and -  
  
He took in a breath, and swam as fast as he could, carrying Estel along with him. The human had exhausted himself in the climb, and after a their long two weeks in the wild, his tired muscles were finally protesting their rough treatment. Estel was nearly boneless as he tried to swim with the current, rather than let it pull him under, and so Elladan tucked him in against his side and stubbornly pushed on.  
  
The boulders were showering freely now, and though he knew they would clear the water before the more dangerous rocks fell, these ones presented their own perils too. It would only take one, and -  
  
As soon as he thought so, a stone the size of his fist tumbled down to strike the side of Estel's head. He felt fear bloom inside of him when the blow immediately knocked the child unconscious. The river lapped at the wound, carrying the blood away, but there was still _blood_ and a worrying knot forming as the child became a dead weight in his hold, leaving him alone to fight with the river's wrath.  
  
Unconscious he was, but Estel still _breathed_. It was not a fatal blow, and yet, if he did not move quickly enough -  
  
Elladan pushed the thought away, and swam with every ounce of might within him.  
  
They cleared the bottom of the cliff before the majority of the rockslide fell, and the waves from the fall actually helped to push them with the current for a moment. Elladan looked ahead to where Elrohir headed for a group of logs that had jammed against the bank of the river. They were lodged against the stone shore, while still reaching far enough out into the current, and Elladan swam harder at seeing their chance to exit the white waters.  
  
The swift flow of the river meant that there was no slow and easy landing against the log. The wood was slippery, and he felt splinters embed themselves in his flesh as he wrenched his arm trying to get a hold on the felled tree. His shoulder was already sore from the fall, and now it twisted in an unnatural way as he stubbornly clung to the log, even when the river tried to move him onwards again. He ignored the pain in his shoulder and wrist as he held on tighter, refusing to allow the current to sweep them back out again.  
  
Elrohir was making their way towards them. Now, if he could just get Estel up on the log . . .  
  
And yet, unconscious, there was no way for Estel to help him. He could not lift the child with one hand, and if he let go . . .  
  
There was no choice in his mind. Not for this. Ignoring Elrohir's calls to _wait_ – hearing his own thoughts as clearly as he did his own – he swung Estel up onto the log, feeling as his injured arm protested the motion. Ligaments strained, and his wrist _burned_ , and yet – it was enough. He got Estel up safely, even as the river drew him out again.  
  
He gulped and spat out the cold water; harder as it was now to swim with his injured arm. With every moment fighting the current, he knew that he was making the damage worse, and yet his alternatives were grim and growing grimmer still as the current picked up speed. Small dips in the riverbed made rolling waterfalls, each making the current turn inside out - pushing him down before he forced himself up again. He was too far in the center of the river, he thought – he could not even begin to try to grab for the shore like this. And yet, every time he tried to swim for the side of the river, the current and inopportunely placed debris would push him back.  
  
His mind swam, trying to remember the shape the river took here. While the larger waterfalls leading down into Imladris were still some distance away, there were some midsized falls where the Bruinen was joined by more tributaries from the mountains that were dangerous indeed. While not completely lethal in height, with both his injured arm and the climb and his time in the river draining his strength with each passing moment . . .  
  
He had to get out before that, he thought grimly. He had no other choice.  
  
Elrohir was still at the forefront of his mind. He could feel his twin's strength fortify his own, numbing his arm and relieving his tiring limbs as Elrohir took his burdens upon himself. He was chattering suggestions at him – there was a small footbridge coming up, and if Elrohir could reach him – _no_ , he immediately shot the idea down. Elrohir could not move with an unconscious child, and he -  
  
Another dip in the river pushed him under, and when he surfaced, coughing to clear his lungs of water, he felt a shadow block out the moonlight overhead. He looked up in time to see a molting of golden brown feathers and the warm yellow of a great beak - and then two strong claw dipped into the waves to pull him from the river by each arm. His injured arm cried out in protest against the strong grasp, but it was a small price to pay for being freed from the river that would have soon been his tomb. He looked up, both awed and amazed for the unexpected aid as he felt Elrohir immediately move to block his pain from his mind before unconsciousness took him as a result.  
  
The giant wings of the Eagle made quick work of taking him back up the river to where Elrohir was still attending to Aragorn, his every move anxious and filled with restless energy. He looked up at the sound of an Eagle's cry, his eyes widening almost comically as he rushed forward to help him when he stumbled from the landing – no matter how gently the Eagle tried to make it.  
  
Elrohir helped him lean forward against the grass when his limbs replied sluggishly to his commands – unsure as he was of whether or not he wanted to push his forehead against the ground and gather his breath. or embrace his brother as he tried to cough up the rest of the water in his lungs. His throat burned from the water he had forcibly swallowed, and he wheezed unflatteringly as his body righted itself again. He felt Elrohir's hand at his back, aiding his efforts until he was well enough to breathe on his own once more.  
  
A shadow covered the clearing on the riverbank as the Eagle took a step closer to where Estel was still asleep, curious as to the small creature he had risked his life for.  
  
“This is not an egg-snatcher,” the Eagle said, stepping back as if startled. His voice rumbled in their bones, speaking into their hearts more so than their ears. The Wind-lord's voice was as warm as summer and as strong as the winds that would sweep between the mountain ways. “Rather, this is a _Man . . ._ and a king amongst Men, at that. My kind used to roost in the star-kingdom that was. We knew his line well in the elder days, before black smoke rose from the land and we were forced to seek clear skies once more.”  
  
“He is Elros' heir,” Elrohir confirmed what the Eagle read from Aragorn's heart. “He is the last of Númenor's goodness and might.”  
  
The Eagle ruffled his feathers, pleased. “And the Half-elf did not yet take him to visit our nests? He has with every other of his fostered hatchlings, but not yet with this one . . . Tell the child that he is welcome in my roost the next time he wishes - there is no need for him to steal in as a thief.”  
  
 _Next time_. Estel would live and heal then. Elladan felt relief fill his heart at the Eagle's insight – shared as it was by Manwë his lord, who saw all through his messenger’s eyes.  
  
The Eagle read his mind, as well. He bowed his massive head, his voice rumbling from his chest as he said, “Your father knows of your plight, and sends aid. The child will keep 'til the morn.”  
  
“I thank-you, Lord-eagle,” Elladan inclined his head in respect, even as he pulled himself over to Aragorn, needing to see for himself that the boy was well. “I am in your debt.”  
  
“There is no debt,” Elladan felt the Eagle's eyes on him . . . and felt that _something_ that was more to the Eagle's spirit and sight settle on the air like a light. It was no mere creature of the earth that addressed him then, he knew, feeling that old, humble awe fill him once again. “You serve as we all serve, and together we take the yoke to fight back shadow from this land. I am honored to take your burdens as my own when I could. Return to me when the child heals, and the honor will be repaid in full.”  
  
“It shall be done,” Elrohir answered for him, seeing where he wearied. The Eagle nodded his head, seeing his need for rest as well as he turned to take to the sky again. His massive wings woke the long grass, and moved the trees with a stiff wind as he rose towards the heavens again. Elladan felt his wet hair and sodden clothes lift to flap in the stiff wind until the Eagle was at last far enough above them, his one last cry dominating the night sky as he winked from view again.  
  
Elladan exhaled, even as he traced a wet hand over the gash at Aragorn's head. It was large and wicked looking, but it was mostly superficial, he finally decided. The bump was more worrying to him – as it could be a sign of bleeding underneath the boy's skull. Elladan could not ascertain the extent of his injuries, frustrated then as he had not been before that he did not share his brother's empathy with the healing arts. Where he could not consciously know what he aided, he rested his brow against the child's and imparted as much of his own warmth and well-being as he could, hoping that it would do anything to help.  
  
“You foolish, foolish child,” he whispered in relief and anxious anger both, feeling boneless in the wake of the boy's ill fated adventure. His eyes burned as he thought of _how close_ he had come to once again . . .  
  
“But you did not,” Elrohir whispered as he drew him away from Aragorn – just enough to end the connection between their spirits. “And you have little to give, brother. You will lame yourself further if you do not keep the energy to heal yourself.”  
  
“I am fine,” Elladan tried to say, but his voice was a dry, raw sound – made so from the rough water and his exhaustion both.  
  
“Yes . . . _fine_ ,” Elrohir drawled, believing him not. “Rest now – riders already set out from the valley. Thorin's company departed this day, and Mithrandir stayed long enough to call the Eagles for us when Adar felt our distress. We will be joined by the morning hour.”  
  
“I will be able to ride then,” Elladan said, closing his eyes as he settled down on the grass next to Aragorn. Elrohir rolled his eyes as he settled in on Estel's opposite side, forming a warm cocoon about the boy.  
  
“You are just as foolish as the child,” Elrohir scolded, but there was relief too in his eyes and voice. Where Elladan could have lost one brother, Elrohir could have lost both, and . . .  
  
He winced at the thought, and exhaled shakily.  
  
“I would have followed you,” Elrohir said after a moment, his thoughts and presence both warm at his mind. As twins, their bond was closer than that of siblings, even, and there were times when he could not tell where he ended and the other began. “I will always follow you,” Elrohir added after a moment, his voice low and weighty with his vow – touching on the issue that had stood between them for centuries now. For where his twin would make his choice one way, he would rather . . .  
  
And yet, he did not have the energy to think about that now. He was exhausted and weary – in more ways than one, for old wounds and old griefs had swam to the surface of his mind with Aragorn's plight, and he now had the energy for little else. Turning so that his bad arm was free of his body, he rested so that Aragorn's head was tucked in underneath his chin, assuring himself that he would be close on hand if he were needed during the night. The boy was all elbows and knees and growing bones between them, and, thankful for their luck, Elladan placed a hand on the child's chest so that he could both feel the certainty of his breathing, and impart what warmth and healing he could.  
  
He closed his eyes then, and did not open them until the dawn.  
  
  
  
.

.  
  
He remembered little about the journey home the next day. Horses and aid had indeed arrived the next morning – Glorfindel and Celeborn both riding out with the guards to help them back home. While Elladan was too proud to ride with another for support – and he most certainly refused to be pulled on a liter back home when the whole of the Wise were still gathered and watching in Imladris – he walked the path of waking dreams while he sat upright in the saddle, having allowed himself to be strapped to his horse like a sack of potatoes.  
  
Estel had awakened with the dawn, and, unlike Elladan, he had no choice when Glorfindel pulled the child up to ride back with him. The golden warrior's impossibly bright spirit would do as much to heal the child as Elrond's considerable skills, and Estel too slept most of the way back to the valley, his protests falling away as exhaustion took him.  
  
He remembered even less of his father looking him over upon returning home, recalling only a hazy shimmer of his diagnosis. He had torn the inner cuff of his shoulder after he continued swimming with his arm dislocated, and while it was now back in place, it would not be the same for some time while the internal muscles and ligaments repaired themselves. He had fractured his wrist and fingers in several places, and had again made each break worse with his continued use of the damaged appendage – and yet, that would heal relatively quickly between Elrond's energies and his own elven healing. It was not casted, merely splinted and wrapped – though he knew from experience that a cast awaited him if he could not keep his hand still. In the queer way of the body and healing, he was more irritated by the wounds left by the splinters in his skin. His nails had been removed in full from his first and middle finger from debris jamming underneath and splintering them - and that, more than anything else, was driving him to distraction.  
  
Mostly, he slept upon returning to the valley – which was against his choice, at that. Seemingly everyone who passed him imparted a bit of their strength, and subtly encouraged his rest. First his father had, and then Glorfindel. He had dimly felt each of his grandparents touch his brow to lend him their strength, and Elrohir stayed by his bedside the rest of the day – insuring with a near mothering vigilance that he kept his rest for as long as his body needed it.  
  
It was some time in the evening hour when a rumbling in his stomach – and a lack of anyone else 'ensuring' that he rested – awakened him fully. He could tell the hour by the purple shadows and golden light spilling in from where the sun was setting in the sky beyond, the dying light filling the healing chambers and color ing the gauzy white drapes as they danced in the evening air. He breathed in deep, and already felt cleansed and refreshed – even where his arm bothered him considerably more than it had that night by the river, where both adrenaline and worry had kept him from noticing the abuse he had heaped upon his body.  
  
Elladan did not sit up, not yet, but he did turn to where he heard voices just beyond him. There was a nearly sheer white drape separating his bed from Aragorn's – which he knew by his being able to hear the boy speaking in soft, subdued tones. He saw a larger shadow move, and heard his father question the child as he attended to his patient.  
  
“It does not hurt,” Estel assured as Elrond gently probed the area of broken skin at his brow. “Not any more.”  
  
“And yet, there is wisdom in thoroughness,” Elrond said as he continued with his examination. He saw with more than physical eyes, Elladan knew from long experience, and there were few secrets of the body that could be kept from his knowing.  
  
Estel was silent for a moment. Elladan could see his face through a parting in the curtains, and saw where he winced – his pain discovered. “I am trying to learn to be wise,” Estel said in a small voice.  
  
“You have many years before you in which to deepen those wisdoms,” Elrond counseled subtly. “You may wish to consider your latest experience as a stride down that path.”  
  
Estel flushed, hearing the Elf-lord's words for what they were. He tried to look down in shame, but could not do so with Elrond seeing to the wound on his brow. Silence fell between them for a long moment. Somewhere in the valley, a voice started to sing for the return of the stars to the night sky – no doubt, one of their Sindarin visitors from Lothlórien, remembering the world before the sun and moon. For a long moment, there was only the song on the air between them as more voices took up the melody.  
  
When Elrond finished his examination, he carefully sat by the child's side, looking him in the eye all the while. “Why did you climb down to the nest, Estel?” he asked in a grave voice.  
  
Though he could only see the back of his father's head, Elladan could imagine the weight of his stare from hundreds of such instances himself. Although Estel looked as if he dearly wished to look away, he held Elrond's gaze. “I . . .” he tried to form his answer. He faltered, and had to start again. “I wanted to do something amazing,” Estel attempted to explain, his every word growing more and more unsure as he spoke.  
  
“Deeds of renown will come in time,” Elrond said softly, wryly in reply. “Most often, when you least expect or wish for them to.”  
  
“No,” Estel shook his head. “It is not like that at all.” He bit his lip. His large grey eyes were filling with tears. “I . . . I wanted to do something amazing so that you will remember me. You . . . everyone here is my family. You are my _family_ , and yet, you will live forever . . . you will mean _everything_ to me while I will be nothing more than the blinking of an eye to you . . . a raindrop in the ocean of your years. I wanted to do something for you to remember me . . . so that you will never _forget_ me.  
   
“It . . . it sounds so silly now,” Estel whispered. His face was red in the wake of his confession, upset as he was in the wake of his pouring his heart out. His eyes were running, and Elladan felt a similar burning behind his own gaze. Elrond too blinked as he pulled the child to him, closing his eyes long and slow as he enfolded Estel in his arms.  
  
“Dear child,” Elrond at last said, his voice thick with feeling. “You are foolish indeed to think that you are not loved as you love. You could live all of your days in peace and simplicity, and even still, not a soul here would be able to forget you. You mistake forever for forgetting, when, to the contrary, it merely means that we have longer to remember you . . . and hold that memory dear.”  
  
Estel's small shoulders were shaking as he clung to the other. “I . . . I could have gotten us both killed,” he finally stammered out, the realization horrifying to him. “I -”  
  
“ - certainly created a memory,” Elrond cut him off. Estel had tortured himself enough with the idea of _what if_ – there was no need for him to do the same. “And it will not be the first time, or the last, I foresee, that one of my children move me to such fear. Yet, do you not see? Elladan would have done anything to keep you safe, even at great cost to himself. Such a thing is not done out of obligation for our having you in our keeping, so much it is that you are dear to us. Do you not see that, child?”  
  
“Yes,” Estel drew away, nodding solemnly as he thought about what Elrond said. “Yes . . . I do.”  
  
“Good,” Elrond said, giving him a moment in which to compose himself. “Now, dry your tears. Your mother has been beside herself with worry, and she wishes to see you. Put on a strong face for her.”  
  
Estel nodded quickly at that, wiping at his eyes and breathing in deep. For one so young, he instinctively knew of Gilraen's sadness, and often moved to spare her even the smallest of griefs. Elrond smiled in approval when Estel looked to him to make sure of his appearance.  
  
“You may go now,” Elrond said. “I want to keep an eye on that cut, but you may sleep in your own bed tonight.”  
  
He waved him away, and Estel bounded to his feet with a child's energy.  
  
“But slowly!” Elrond called after him when he tried to run. Estel slowed to a walk, obedient, but still hurried off to meet his mother's arms with a quick step, his pains already forgotten.  
  
Elrond watched him leave, and after, Elladan did not bother closing his eyes to feign disinterest when his father turned to him - aware that he had been known for his eavesdropping the whole of the time.  
  
“You too are awake,” Elrond said as he came over to him, pushing the curtain aside.  
  
“I had little choice before,” he answered – to which Elrond looked decidedly unrepentant. A pain like a war-hammer crashed against his temple, and Elladan held his good hand to his head. “Although,” he admitted, “I do believe that I would rather sleep through the Balrog seeking to escape my skull.”  
  
“You would be much improved if you had not given so much of yourself to the child,” Elrond chided. “While your heart was in the right place, Aragorn was already healing. You needed not do so to such extremes.”  
  
“I could not . . .” he tried to speak, but found the words lost in his throat. How could he say that he saw only his mother bruised and broken when he saw Estel clinging to the cliff-side? Though the situations were world's apart, the fact remained that they were both underneath _his_ protection, and if he had done anything . . .  _everything_ more than he had . . . then, perhaps, his mother would still be with them. He could not . . . he _would_ not have been able to bear bringing home another broken soul.  
  
“It seems that I have two foolish sons,” Elrond heard the shape of his thoughts when he could not speak his words aloud. As he had done with Estel, he sat next to him on the bed and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “Do you not see that the only pain you give to me is the pain you heap upon yourself? And you have burdened yourself with many pains since that day in the mountains.”  
  
He needed to let it go, were the unspoken words. And yet . . . such a hatred still burned in his heart. His spirit was rushed and fast and _angry_ , and he could not get it to slow. Where most of the Wise fought for the good of all Middle-earth, he knew that he fought with vengeance in his heart and hatred in his bones. It was not good or just or noble of him, and yet . . .  
  
He inhaled, and tried to swallow his black feelings away. He had tried letting the feeling go, basking in its every shape and it rose up through every pore . . . he had tried hiding it away completely, forcing it down deep inside, and yet, neither extreme had healed him of his anger and pain. It was a part of him now, and he could not will it away.  
  
Elrond sighed, and Elladan felt a familiar warmth fill him as his father tried to help him fight his demons. It was a temporary fix, but Elladan took the healing for what it was, hoping that someday the effects would linger and become permanent.  
  
In the wake of his father touching his soul, his arm felt much improved, at least. All of his dozens of aches and pains felt soothed, and he could think with a clarity of mind. He felt good enough to take on Dol Guldur alone, even, and -  
  
“Gandalf left this afternoon,” Elrond answered his next question before he asked it. “He wished to rejoin Thorin and his company in the mountains, for he foresaw a shadow falling there.” Elrond was silent for a moment, his brow creased with thought.  
  
And yet, if Gandalf left . . .  
  
“Does that mean you were successful?” he could not help the eagerness in his voice. “Was the Council able to convince the White Wizard to march?”  
  
“We will take our fight to Dol Guldur,” Elrond confirmed. “Saruman at long last gives his blessing to do so.”  
  
 _At last_ , he could not help but think. For centuries, the shadow had been growing over the forests and stretching over the land as the Enemy grew in might, but now . . .  
  
“And our forces?” Elladan pressed. “What has been decided?”  
  
“There will be no help from Mithlond but for those few underneath Galdor's command who met for the Council. Círdan would empty the Havens if need be, but his forces would long be seen in coming, and give our aim away, ” Elrond answered first. “And so, in a week's time, we will take the guard of Imladris to join the Galadhrim in Lothlórien. Galadriel and Celeborn will spare as many men as are not needed to protect the Golden Wood - for if our day goes to ill, the battlements of Dol Guldur can be seen from Caras Galadhon, and they will not leave their people so bereft.”  
  
Elladan did the math, and the numbers were still not to his liking. Thanks to Gandalf's going behind the walls of Dol Guldur, they knew that the Enemy was not the same as he once was in might of spirit, and yet, Dol Guldur was still guarded enough. The Nine walked the halls of Minas Morgal in Mordor, rebuilding the dark land to its black glory once more - but the Nazghûl could be summoned at their Master's will, and with their unholy ways, who knew how fast they could arrive to strengthen Sauron's forces?  
  
Their people were few compared to the might they once were. Both death in the wars of old and leaving for the West had exhausted their numbers, and with their families and childbearing couples the first to leave for the Undying Lands, their numbers were very slow to rebuild. Those who remained in Ennor were those who loved the land and stood for its protection, and yet, they were now few. The brunt of the fight to come would not be to the Elves, Elladan knew. When the final days came . . .  
  
And yet, he acknowledged ruefully. It was best to think of one battle at a time. The might of Imladris and Lothlórien would meet, and from Mirkwood . . .  
  
“And the Dragon?” Elladan asked. “Thranduil stands to lose as much as Lórien if this goes to ill – perhaps even more so.”  
  
“Gandalf,” Elrond's eyes twinkled as he said so, “sees to that on his own accord – away from the wisdom and permission of Saruman, might I add. Though my heart bodes ill for Thorin Oakenshild himself, the threat of Smaug has too long reigned in the north. Gandalf's timing is right, and Mirkwood will aid him in his endeavors – whether they realize it or not.”  
  
“Then Thranduil will send no help in arms?” Elladan asked.  
  
Elrond shook his head. “No,” he answered. “He will protect his own, but it will take much for him to march for the good of all once again. He lost more than most on the plains of Dagorlad, and the shadow touched his heart with a grief that has still yet to heal.”  
  
 _No more than most_ , Elladan thought, uncharitable as it was. So many had died to bring peace to their lands – as they had ever done. And yet, there were those ready to stand again and again, as many times as would need be. While he did not thirst for war, he was eager to meet the Enemy to return his pain in kind . . . eager indeed.  
  
If Elrond saw the rising of violence in his eyes, he did not comment, but the feeling of warmth around him grew – pushing the red of the bloodlust away.  
  
“Help shall augment our forces in an unexpected way,” Elrond finally said, watching his eyes as understanding dawned.  
  
“Isengard's forces?” Elladan finally understood, delight filling him as he imagined that particular bit of prodding.  
  
“Galadriel can be most persuasive when cross,” Elrond said simply. “In the end, the White Wizard had no choice but to agree.”  
  
Imladris, Lothlórien and Isengard . . . Three Ring-bearers, and three of the Istari between Gandalf and Radagast and Saruman . . . even with their depleted numbers, it would be enough, he decided. More than enough.  
  
“We leave within the week, then?” Elladan asked.  
   
" _We_ shall leave to group in Lothlórien at the next week's end, yes,” Elrond said gently.  
  
Elladan heard the stress on the word, and he knew . . .  
  
“You will go without me?” the words were plain, dropped from his mouth like stones into the water.  
  
Elrond raised a brow, and the golden warmth he had been feeling left him as his father withdrew his power. Immediately his pain came back tenfold, and he grit his teeth in reply, stubbornly holding his father's stare without blinking.  
  
“You need to let your arm heal,” Elrond said. “And, I will need someone left here to lead. The Ring will leave the valley, and the wards protecting Imladris will weaken until I return with Vilya.”  
  
“Then leave Erestor in charge,” Elladan countered. “He knows better than I the running of the valley.”  
  
“Yes, Erestor is both a skilled tactician and a more than competent steward. And yet, he is better when advising, not leading absolutely,” Elrond countered, his voice hardening. “You are a born commander, and you understand - ”  
  
“ - which is why I would be better served with _you_ ,” Elladan countered. “It would be for ill to leave me behind. Better, even, would it be if - ”  
  
He almost countered that _he_ would be better suited in his father's place before he caught himself. Though Elrond had spent long centuries as a leader during a watchful peacetime, he knew the ways of war in a way Elladan would never be able to understand – for such a fight would never again belong to the Elves of Middle-earth as it once had. He knew his father best as a healer, as a scholar with a quill in hand . . .  but he was also the son of Elwë and Finwë's combined might, with the blood of Mankind's foremost fathers and a Maia divine running through his veins, at that. It was all too easy to forget Elrond's heritage until he was forcibly reminded of it, feeling as the blue weight of his father's spirit filled the air around him – answering his unconscious challenge. He felt his skin prickle in awareness as static seemed to crawl up and down his spine, warning him of a force he would do well not to trifle with. Still, he squared his jaw and met his father's eye unblinkingly, unwilling to give.  
  
“I need you here to protect that which I will not be able to defend myself,” Elrond said plainly, finally pulling back the force of his fëa before it turned smothering. “There will be warriors aplenty marching on Dol Guldur, but I need one _here_ , to protect that which is our dearest hope for the future to come.”  
  
 _Estel_ , Elladan thought with a pang, his cheeks coloring as he realized what his father was asking of him.  
  
“You are pacifying me,” still Elladan countered. He could feel as Elrond's healing returned to him, again numbing his pain. The force of his spirit was once more like a star – giving its light, but not burning from such a distance away.  
  
“I would not,” Elrond said simply in answer. “I think too highly of you for that.”  
  
Elladan raised a brow, but could not counter the other when he had been so moved into a corner. He fought the urge to sigh, not wishing to stay behind, and yet . . .  
  
“I trust you,” Elrond said simply, seeing as the war waned in his eyes. “I trust you with all that I hold dear, as I ever have.”  
  
Elladan swallowed, and did so around a stone. His throat was thick as he nodded, remembering only Celebrían smiling as she tried to sooth her husband's fears of her crossing the mountains. He remembered joining her high spirits, vowing, _“We shall see her back safely, Adar, you have our word."_  He remembered the solemn trust that had been gifted to him in return.  
  
He breathed in through his nose, and gave his vow again, “I will not fail you.”  
  
He held his father's gaze without blinking, and saw where Elrond's eyes dimmed for a moment – weary with an old hurt. And yet, it was not hurt felt for his own pain, Elladan realized. Instead - “You have never failed me,” Elrond said gently as he stood. “Never.”  
  
Elladan closed his eyes as he held on to his words – needing them more and more every time they were spoken. He felt tears burn, but he did not let them fall as Elrond gently touched his brow. He felt that familiar warmth touch his spirit, and he did not fight it as sleep settled upon his consciousness once more. Instead, he closed his eyes, and let himself heal.


	40. "growing hope next to bones" II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elladan & Aragorn || Prompt: _Hope_ , continued from the last chapter

The day after next, Elladan was looked over and declared fit enough to leave the healing rooms. Of course, he was warned to keep to the least menial of tasks – which meant that anything of interest was to be far from him until his arm was fully healed, and he was stuck indoors with scroll and pen as a result.  
  
Upon hearing that he would be taking over Elrond's duties, Erestor had prepared a stack of missives for him to see to – dealing with everything from replenishing the valley's larders and wine cellars (which Thorin's company had been able to consume at a rather alarming rate), to more menial matters, such as the conditions of the various foot bridges over the Bruinen, which would have to be maintained while the summer months were still with them.  
  
It was all very . . . interesting, he tried to convince himself. Though he was over two thousand years old, he was still as a mulish child with his schoolwork whenever there were words on paper to be seen to. At least, that was what Erestor had said as he heaped more scrolls upon his already considerable pile. Elladan had fought not to scowl at the prim steward's well meaning teasing – which would have only solidified the truth of his words. Even so, he made a face when the older elf left, nearly certain that he was being punished.  
  
 _You are n_ _ot_ _being_ _punished – but crafted_ , Elrohir tried to point out when he 'thought' loudly enough for his twin to hear. If the unthinkable ever came to be, or if their father eventually went West before they did, then the valley and its governing would fall to them. Everything he now learned would prove to someday be of value, Elrohir reasoned. Even so, it was easy for his brother to say so, for Elrohir had always been the more patient one between them. He did not mind sitting through the tedious and mundane if it was of importance. And now . . .  
  
He would much rather be in his brother's place, he thought with a pang that was equal parts grief at their impending separation and envy. Elrohir had left him toiling in the library in order to help Glorfindel organize the guard for their upcoming journey over the mountains. The valley all but sang with a restless energy for the fight against the Enemy to come, and he hated knowing that he would not be taking part of it. He should be out _there_ , helping where he would be most of use - not inside, hunched over parchment with a quill in hand.  
  
Elladan felt a tightening in his chest, and fought to push his darker thoughts away before Elrohir could pick up on his frustration. It was bad enough that his brother was going without him, and yet, he would feel as such if Elrohir took any task that separated them. They had not been parted for more than a day at a time since their birth, and the idea of now spending so long away from his twin was something that he could not think of without grief.  
  
And yet, he would not reflect on such things now. He did not want to dampen Elrohir's spirits with the black tug of his own. Besides - the tally of feed the horse-master wished to order was taking all of his concentration. He had room to think of little else.  
  
Sitting at the table across from him, Estel looked just as miserable as he. Elladan had moved his work into the library so that he could sit with the child – who was catching up on the studies he had missed during their two week sojourn from the valley. Head injuries were nothing to treat lightly, and the boy had not been allowed near his pony or to practice with his bow since returning. While Elladan was able to rationalize why he was to stay behind while the rest of their fighting men left Imladris, Estel was a child with a child's mind, no matter how much they prided him for being wise beyond his years - he did not like that so many he cared for were readying to travel beyond where he could see, and went with swords and bows, at that.  
  
Estel carried his worry and his unease close to the surface, and that worry expressed itself as a short temper and a restlessness of spirit. Already he had been scolded for being disrespectful to his mother when Gilraen tried to dress the gash on his brow, and he had coldly ignored Glorfindel when the warrior had tried to cheer his mood – blaming the Captain of the guard for the fight to come with a child's hurt form of logic. Estel had made his amends to both, but knowing that he had acted ignobly drew his mood even further down. As a result, his face was sad as he stared unblinkingly at the empty page before him, and he absently played with the feathered end of his quill rather than writing with it.  
  
When it became clear that Estel was learning as much of his Adûnaic as he was progressing through his tallies, he pushed both of their scrolls aside and took out a deck of cards. While such games were a more human pastime than an elven one, Estel was mortal, and Elladan would see that he was able to bluff his way through any hand by the time he returned to his folk. Aragorn's father had been one of the best card players of Elladan's long acquaintance with the Dúnedain, and he would ensure that Arathorn's legacy was carried on in even the smallest of ways.  
  
This was one of the many things that he wanted to tell Aragorn about his father. Someday, Estel would learn his name and heritage, and while the histories would tell of Arathorn the Chieftain, he looked forward to being able to speak of Arathorn the man. He was counting down the days until Estel's twentieth birthday much as Gilraen did – she being all but eager for her son to know the father who had given his all for his people and his family.  
  
And yet, until then, he regaled Aragorn with tales from own his mother's time spent in Moria during the Second Age. He spoke of how the Dwarves played with dice and cards quite like this, and shared the words of one of their more humorous ditties that detailed the evils that came with placing a bet that one could not keep. His stories lightened the child's mood, and even garnered a smile or two – a smile that Elladan had shared, glad as he was to think of his mother in a lighter context than he normally did. He was happy to dip into his wealth of stories, and Estel had been curious about Dwarves in general since learning who had resided in Imladris while they were gone. Better was Aragorn's curiosity than his bleak mood, and so, Elladan indulged him where he could.  
  
His stories had ebbed to silence as they passed a hand in quite companionship. Estel's brow was furrowed with thought, and yet, his mind was not wholly on the cards. Elladan saw where he gathered his words, and waited to pry – knowing that he would speak when he knew what he wanted to say.  
  
“I am sorry,” Estel said after the silence turned long between them. “It was a foolish thing of me to do, and I know regret that my actions put you - put _us_ \- in so much harm.”  
  
Elladan did not have to ask him what he was apologizing for. “Yes, it was a foolish thing to do,” he agreed, having waited for this conversation. “Most likely, we would have taken you at the summer's end, when the nests were empty of the Eagles' young. You did not have long to wait.”  
  
Estel looked down, his face flushing, and yet, Elladan saw no need to put him through more counsel than that. The boy had already been corrected by Elrond and Gilraen both – and was serving out his sentence in the kitchens with Bethril every evening for the next two weeks, at that. So, he softened his face, letting Estel know that he carried no resentment or lingering anger.  
  
“I wanted to do something amazing,” Estel said without looking up, trying to explain his motives in the best way he knew how. He played with the corners of his cards as he spoke, not really seeing the suit they held. “I wanted to impress you with something that had not been done before . . . I thought to present you with an Eagle's feather upon the morn, and imagined that you would have known pride for how much I had learned and applied what I was being taught . . .”  
  
“You already amaze me,” Elladan said, his words simplein reply. “And you do so even without having reached the nests on your own.”  
  
Estel's blush deepened, but not only from shame. The child peaked up from beneath his bangs, his eyes wide with his hope. “I am sorry,” he said sincerely once more. “I will not be so foolish again.”  
  
“I have already forgiven you, Estel,” Elladan said warmly. “And yet, you are a growing child,” his voice turned rueful. “Perhaps it is better not to make promises you cannot keep. I know that you will think more carefully about your actions next time – and there is wisdom learned in that. Your insights will be great as a man, I feel, and you have already taken a great step towards their learning.”  
  
Estel glanced down again, his brow furrowed with his thoughts. “I have been told so often,” he muttered, his eyes turning a stormy shade of grey. “And yet . . .”  
  
Whispers were dropped often about his future, but nothing was ever specifically said, Elladan knew. This was an old and common reason for frustration, and one that grew all the more so with every passing year.  
  
“You knew my father, did you not?” Estel asked after a moment, his every word hesitantly phrased. Since he was old enough to understand – and espy the difference between Men and Elves, at that – he had known that Elrond was not his father in blood. Even so, the idea of Arathorn was a hazy reality to him, something half-understood, as if known from a dream.  
  
Carefully, Elladan answered, “Yes, I knew your father.” He kept his face straight as he said so, for Estel knew that he was at liberty to answer little more than that.  
  
“Can you tell me anything more?” Estel asked, such an eager light brightening his eyes that Elladan felt his own heart hurt with it. “Can you tell me anything about who I really am?”  
  
A moment passed. He reached over to tilt the child's chin up, looking into his eyes as he did so. “You are hope,” he responded simply, watching as Estel fought not to roll his eyes in reply.  
  
“I knew that you would say so,” he complained, and Elladan smiled.  
  
“Ask an Elf no questions, for they will answer you neither yes or no,” he stated, to which Estel gave a loud sigh.  
  
“Then it is wise of me to ask _you_ ,” Estel said cheekily, his eyes narrowing. “You _want_ to tell me the truth. I can tell that much, at least.”  
  
The child had him - insightful little creature that he was. Even though his words were matter-of-fact, a part of them still carried a sharp edge. He searched Estel's face for a long moment, seeing both Arathorn's serious brow and Arathorn's expressive grey eyes as they lightened . . .  
  
And so, he said, “Your father was a very brave man who gave everything for his family.” It was the truth in its simplest form. “He would have known nothing but pride for his son.”  
  
Estel swallowed. Elladan could see how much even the smallest of words meant to him as he took them and held them close, examining them for their every sound and shape.  
  
“And, your father was the best card player I have ever known,” Elladan admitted when he turned his attention back to their game. “It is a skill you have inherited, I see.”  
  
Just that easily, Estel smiled, his mood lightening as quickly as it had set in. While his face was still grave in expression, his countenance was no longer weighed down. He did not have the answers he sought, but for now, he knew enough to tide him over.  
  
Estel turned back to his hand, and Elladan watched him, seeing the ghost of Arathorn hover over every move the boy made. And yet, such thoughts would not do – for neither he or Aragorn. So, he turned his attention back to the cards, and made his move.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
As was planned, the guard of Imladris left the valley at the end of the following week.  
  
At the east-gate, he hugged Elrohir goodbye – not bothering to hide how much he would miss the other while they were parted. When he pulled away, he clapped his twin on the shoulder and gave him his favorite set of throwing knives to use in a pinch. He tried to keep his voice light and easy, but he knew where his sorrow clung to his words and betrayed him in his eyes.  
  
He next said goodbye to his grandparents, vowing that he would set out to visit the Golden Wood when next his time with the Dúnedain allowed him to do so. He did miss Lothlórien and the healing that the realm provided, but crossing the mountains grew all the more perilous with each passing year, and he cared but little for braving the Redhorn Pass for obvious reasons. Galadriel caught the trail end of his thoughts, and the warm gold of her spirit touched his in reply, soothing over the angry lines of his fëa with her grace before she turned away. Celeborn was more tangible with his comfort – embracing him as if he were still a child and smiling warmly before turning to join his wife.  
  
The whole of the time he said his farewells, his father had been biding a quiet goodbye to Aragorn – kneeling down so that he was eye to eye with the boy, and speaking with words Elladan could not hear. Gilraen stood behind her son, her hands warm on Aragorn's shoulders as Elrond promised to return before the onset of winter. Estel nodded at the vow, and yet, his grey eyes shone with the words he refused to say – he liking but little that they rode out clad in mail, with their weapons close at hand. He had already lost one father, and with a child's fear he worried for saying farewell to another. Though Elladan had not of foresight, he _felt_ that he would see his family again, and so, he forced a smile to his face as he promised his father that he would lead Imladris well in his absence.  
  
As he said so, he looked over Elrond's shoulder to see where Glorfindel had picked Estel up and spun him about – asking him not to grow too tall while they were away, else he would not be able to carry him as such upon returning. The request had Estel giving the smallest of smiles in return – the half Vanya's presence ever a light to those around him.  
  
After the last farewell had been said, Elladan stood at the gate with Gilraen and Aragorn as the guard rode out onto the mountain trails. Estel watched the mail clad warriors with wide, envious eyes, only saying, “I wish that I was going with them,” when the last warrior left to form the rear of their host.  
  
“You will find yourself riding out soon enough,” Gilraen said. Elladan looked, and saw the way the tips of her fingers turned white upon her son's shoulders.  
  
“Much too soon for my taste,” Elladan added, speaking ruefully so as to draw a smile from the child. “Already you make me feel old enough as it is.”  
  
The corner of Estel's mouth curved up before turning down again, he watching the guard with serious, narrowed eyes. Behind him, Gilraen too looked on – she had said farewell many times in her life, and looked to do so many times still. She had been young even amongst the eyes of Men when she first came to the valley, and she still looked so with her face untouched by age, and the dark, honey blonde shade of her hair still bright with youth. Only her eyes betrayed her, weighing upon her face with an age still many years past her.  
  
“Who do they go to fight?” Estel asked after a moment. “It must be quite a foe for so many to have been gathered in the valley.” Thoughtfully, he puzzled through his thoughts – this being the first time he had met Galdor and his folk from the Grey-havens, and the representatives of Mirkwood, few as they came. He had spied Saruman from a distance – as they had discreetly tried to keep the one from the other. Radagast too they had steered Estel away from, for while Yavanna's Maia was a kind and gentle soul, he was too close to Saruman in both respect and confidence, and it would take but for a word . . .  
  
And yet, he called himself from his thoughts, knowing that Estel already had a sharp mind for one so young. He would know a lie, and though he was shielded from much, they could not keep him hidden from all. “They go to fight a very dark being,” Elladan answered, glancing over at Gilraen as he said so, not wanting to share anything that she would not agree for her son hearing. Her face was serene. Her mouth made a thin line, and yet, she did not gesture for him to stay his words. “They march upon a creature of evil, who has plagued these lands since days of old. While we cannot yet destroy him, we hope to push him back to the lands of his rule, thus forcing him to leave the forests to the east in peace.”  
  
Gilraen took in a breath at his words, and exhaled slowly. Ever did the Enemy search for the sons of Elendil, and he knew that Aragorn's dreams were at times plagued by Sauron reaching out to touch his mind - vainly attempting to expose him from his hiding place. There was a curse upon Númenor's sons, and though Elendil had been of the Faithful, he had too long lived underneath Sauron's shadow. He, like the rest of Númenor of old, had been touched by a darkness ancient and powerful, and even though his deeds were worthy and honorable, never would he or his line completely escape the taint of his presence until Sauron was destroyed completely.  
  
“I know of whom you speak . . . there are times when I can see him when I dream,” Estel whispered on the wings of his thoughts. He glanced to Gilraen and Elladan in turn, as if asking leave to tell a secret. “He is beautiful in appearance, and when he speaks his voice is as warm as music. He searches . . . he gives such promises . . .”  
  
Elladan swallowed, hating the truth of his words as they were spoken. Even Elrond's wards could not completely keep Aragorn's mind free from Sauron's taint, and he hated the frustration that came with fighting such an intangible enemy . . . an enemy who moved in sleep and fought in shadows.  
  
Gilraen knelt down so that she was eye to eye with her son. She rubbed Estel's shoulder soothingly, her brow as pained as his own, she being even more helpless to fight against the untouchable and formless than he.  
  
“But then the dream turns dark when I run for him,” Estel continued, biting his lip with his words. “Then I see him as he truly is . . . He is fire; seeing everything, _consuming_ everything . . . ”  
  
“Shh, child,” Gilraen said. “These are nothing but dreams, and can harm you not.” And yet, her voice was whispered, she knowing the truth of their threat as her son instinctively understood the foul nature of the mind trying to touch his own.  
  
“Where they go . . .” Estel paused, unsure of how to form his thought. “Do they . . .”  
  
“Yes,” he did not lie. “That is the foe they will face.”  
  
Estel looked to where the last rider had disappeared into the mountains. “It scares me,” he revealed on a whisper, looking back to them when the shadows on the path would reveal no more.  
  
“It scares me too,” Elladan admitted on a whisper as they turned back inside the gate. “ . . . It scares me too.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
It was not until weeks later that he felt a rippling of joy across his spirit.  
  
He paused, and Estel looked up from beside him, having noticed the change in his stride. “What is it?” he asked.  
  
“They reached Lothlórien,” Elladan answered him, his voice soft as a light of white and gold danced about his soul like sunlight upon the water, warming him even from such a distance away.  
  
“How can you tell?” Estel asked, curious.  
  
He knelt down and took the child's hand in his own, unable as he was to find the words to explain what he felt. He opened his mind to the boy, letting him feel the dancing touch of Arwen's spirit as it reached out for his own. While he was close with his sister, her presence within his spirit had been muted from so far away, he sensing her only in occasional bursts of feeling and awareness. But now, with Elrohir at her side, and his twin's joy a nearly tangible thing to his senses as it intertwined with Arwen's presence, he felt as if she were physically by his side – a specter of light and warmth he could almost reach out and touch.  
  
Estel blinked, and looked as if he wanted to step back at the radiance that washed over him. “What is that?” he asked, his voice whispered as he looked on the interplay of spirits with an amazed wonder.  
  
“That is my sister,” Elladan answered, amused as Estel unconsciously tried to reach towards the warmth of their bond, drawn to it like a tree towards the sun. “Ever is her spirit a light, and yet, it is one that I have not felt in too many years. Sometimes, it is easy to forget until reminded, as I am now.”  
  
“She is beautiful,” Estel said on an exhale, meaning his every word as Arwen's spirit winked one more time before fading away, once more becoming a source of warmth deep inside his soul.  
  
“Yes . . .” Elladan could not help the fond look that crossed his face then. “Yes, she is.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
Near the end of the fall, he could feel the day that the White Council marched upon Dol Guldur.  
  
Estel had long since healed from his Midsummer's Eve adventure, and he was now all but pacing the halls with his restlessness for the return of the valley's residents. That day, a feeling of unease fell upon all in the land for the conscious will of Sauron turning for the first in such power and might, and Estel was no exception. While the child could not consciously understand the cause of his restlessness that day, Elladan guessed that he could feel the same shadow that he did – both Sauron reaching out from his stone walls for the first, and the residual empathetic links he bore with those in the valley telling a tale his conscious thoughts would be unable to fully understand.  
  
Elladan had returned early that morning from riding out to check the outer wards of the valley's defenses. Though the spells protecting Imladris were weakened with Vilya's departure, they were still holding, and Elladan trusted that they would continue to hold until the Ring was returned.  
  
Aragorn had been asking for weeks to ride with him – even if it was just to the mountain trails right beyond their home, and no further than that. Those ways were still safe, he was quick to argue, for the outer wards protected the forests and mountains around the valley, and their scouts kept any danger from reaching so close to their dwellings. There would be no harm in venturing out, Estel reasoned, hope lining his every word.  
  
Elladan knew that he was being overcautious, but it was not until that day that Aragorn was finally able to sway him – which was a result of his own restlessness as much as it was due to the child's. He could _feel_ the battle from far beyond as it licked at his skin, and his temples hurt from his constant effort to buoy his twin's spirit from so far away. The peace and tranquility of Imladris was suffocating when he could all but hear the warcries and feel the vibrations of steel crossing steel when he closed his eyes. He would go mad if he was forced to remain still and look over scrolls that day – and in that, he sympathized wholeheartedly with Estel.  
  
Any reservations he may have had about taking Aragorn faded as soon as they left set out upon the mountain trail. Almost instantly, Estel was full of breathless delight, chirping excitedly and trying to take in everything all at once, as if this was his first time leaving the valley's gates.  
  
Elladan did not mind his good cheer in the least. The day had dawned as a shadow in his mind, even though the sky was cloudless and the sun overhead was bright. Though he could feel where Elrohir tried to dampen their connection, he could still sense the battle as it rolled like a tide upon the shore – receding and advancing as Sauron's ranks poured from the gates of Dol Guldur as waves crashing upon the rock. As a result, he was quiet as they walked the trails just above the valley, where the great waterfalls of the Bruinen gathered in jeweled tiers before pouring down into the basins below.  
  
Estel sensed his mood, and he soon turned silent to match. He walked a few steps ahead of him, pausing every so often to shoot at imaginary targets in the wood. Sometimes he would frown, while other times he would smile, his target in the trunks of the trees a clear hit with what he had pictured in his mind. Each time his arrow made a clean strike Estel would look over his shoulder, and yet, Elladan was slow with praise that day. He could _feel_ as Elrohir took his own aim and fought his own foes, while the filth the Enemy employed burned with a cold fire across his senses.  
  
At that, he looked up, feeling a whisper of disquiet ripple across his own skin. For a moment, it was hard to disengage what he felt from what Elrohir felt, and yet . . .  
  
Ahead of him on the path, Aragorn heard what he had sensed. His head was tilted, and his arrow rested nocked against his bow. He lowered his weapon, trying to listen to something moving in the wood.  
  
Elladan stepped forward, peering through the trees to look down on the trail they had just come up from. He looked, and saw -  
  
By his side, Estel started, surprised when there were two deformed figures on the path – Orcs with stooped backs and strong limbs, dressed in light armor with their hands on the hilts of their swords at their sides. The sound of the Black Speech was muttered, and even with the distance between them, the sound was discordant, blighting the natural beauty of the valley with that which was unnatural, that which was blasphemous to the fairness of the creation surrounding them.  
  
The pair of Orcs were complaining to each other as they followed the river, Elladan heard – they liking but little the song of the water and the dance of enchantment that sweetened the air. Imladris was a stronghold of old power and of deep magicks – and that must have sickened the Orcs just as their muttered words pelted against his own spirit as blows against his skin. He narrowed his eyes, seeing the sigil of Gundabad in the black markings upon their armor. They had come down from the north then, he would wager, sent from Bolg's recaptured stronghold underneath the northernmost peaks in the Misty Mountains.  
  
He could deal with them easily enough, Elladan decided. His true worry was for how many more had slipped through the gaps in the valley's defenses. Most of Gundabad's might would have headed east to join Sauron's forces, he would have thought. And yet, if Sauron thought that the valley's weakened defenses would be an ample time in which to scout out the hidden location of Imladris . . .  
  
Most likely, these two were merely scouts – spies with strict instructions to let none know of their presence while they sought to see what they could, and that had true anger burning low in his bones. Imladris was a safe haven, a peaceful land of song and healing, and for the Enemy to dare defile it, even in thought . . .  
  
He drew his sword and turned to Estel – who was looking with wide eyes on the pair below them, this being the first time he had seen an Orc in his life.  
  
“How are they here?” Estel whispered, unblinking as he took in each line of jagged bone, each ridge cut into the pallid flesh of the creatures before them. The first time Elladan had seen an Orc, he had felt pity for the bleak parameters of their unnatural existence – much as what now flickered though Estel's eyes. But those years were now long behind him, and Elladan only felt a cold fury fill him for the defilement of their presence upon the land.  
  
“The wards surrounding Imladris are weakened,” Elladan explained with clipped vowels. “They must have slipped through our watch.” Easier would it have been for two lone scouts to move in secret, he thought. Anything more would have been easily detected and seen to. But now . . .  
  
“I do not think that they come to fight – only to spy, and yet, a fight they shall find.” He stepped back from the line of the trees, walking back towards the path – which the Orc pair would take straight towards them. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, calming his breathing as his blood pumped hot and angry through his veins.  
  
And yet, as he drew his sword, something unexpected happened.  
  
A sharp pain bloomed at the top of his thigh, biting into his skin with the familiar burn of an arrow piercing flesh. The pain was ghost like for all of its intensity, forcing him to kneel as he tried to process what he was feeling. He ground his teeth while at his mind, he felt both Elrohir's annoyance and pain with being struck. An Orc arrow, he understood as Elrohir moved to shield him from what he was feeling, shot by a sentry on the wall.  
  
Elladan ground his teeth as his twin pulled the arrow from his skin, feeling it as if it were removed from his own flesh, and -  
  
“Elladan!” he could feel Estel's small hands at his shoulder, trying to rouse him from the haze that had taken him. “Elladan, what is wrong?”  
  
He pressed the heel of his palm into his thigh, as if to stem an invisible flow of blood. The phantom pain continued to ghost through him, and he ground his teeth at the sensation - even as he welcomed more, knowing that any burden he could take from Elrohir could mean the difference between life and death in such a melee. Elrohir protested, but he was stronger than his twin in that moment – and he forced the link between them to remain open.  
  
“Elladan?” Estel asked again, worry leeching into his voice as he glanced back down the ridge again.  
  
“Elrohir,” he forced the name out, even as the Orcs turned on the path beneath them. They scented the air like dogs, their lips drawing back from their teeth as they traded grotesque smiles with each other. “He is wounded, and I . . ..”  
  
Estel's eyes were wide. He bit his lip. “Then you can feel . . .” he waved a hand, unable to articulate his question.  
  
“Yes, I can,” still he answered. “And I will not be able to fight as I normally would,” he said grimly – what had begun as an easy dispatching of an unaware foe turning into a perilous situation indeed. “I need you to climb as high as you can, and hide.” He gestured to a nearby evergreen, its limbs growing tall and strong from the rock. “No matter what, do not leave this tree. Either I will be successful here, or help will come for you. Only _do not leave the tree_ , do you understand?”  
  
He hated the fear he saw in the child's eyes, but there was no time to shield him in that moment. Reality was raw and real before them, and Elladan winced as he felt the pain in his leg throb anew.  
  
“But - ” Estel tried to argue, but Elladan cut him off.  
  
“No,” he hissed the one word out on an exhale. “You are to hide, do you understand me?”  
  
Estel was silent for a moment, but he nodded, bravely holding his gaze. “Yes,” he finally answered. “I understand.”  
  
“Good,” Elladan pushed him towards the tree. Estel climbed quickly and surely while Elladan walked forward to where the pair of scouts had found their scent on the air. Even with his bad leg, he had strength enough in his arms and upper body, and if he could get close enough . . . he was angry and frustrated, and he had someone to protect just behind him. Even with his handicap, he was a foe not to be crossed.  
  
He spun the sword in his hands, and stood his ground.  
  
Though the Orcs could not smell blood, they could smell the sour scent of his pain – and their eyes were wide and glassy with anticipation as they stalked closer, foolishly thinking this fight to be an easy one.  
  
“You are far from home, Elf, are you not?” the first Orc teased as he came closer. His voice was a grating sound, like a blade striking bone.  
  
“ . . . or aren't you?” the second mused aloud, tilting his head. “We must be close then, if you were crawling back from whence you came.”  
  
“We do not smell blood, but _pain_ ,” the first one said thoughtfully. “Why could that be?”  
  
“Well, we do not smell blood _yet_ ,” the second added, and they both laughed, amused by their own wit.  
  
Elladan fought the urge to wince. The Enemy had never seen that his servants had evolved enough to properly give what he would consider to be true banter, and instead of deigning them with words in reply, he simply bared his teeth and stood his ground, tightening his hold upon the hilt of his sword.  
  
He did not speak before stepping into his opening blow – surprising the first Orc with the strength behind the swing – a blow which would have severed his head from his shoulders if he did not find a way to block it in time. The Orc hissed, and Elladan spun around to fight the second off of his back. His footwork was off, and his strikes were clumsy as he felt Elrohir struggle to his feet again.  
  
The battle beyond was growing, he thought, tasting ash in his mouth and feeling as a shadow rose from the battlements of Dol Guldur, taking shape . . . The spirit of Sauron was rising, and even as a mere shadow the force of his presence was smothering, drawing on unconscious fears and intensifying every pain a hundredfold as he joined the fight as a fell specter of wrath. Elladan felt where Sauron mercilessly tore through his twin's mind – as he did through all upon the battlefield - finding each disquiet thought and painful memory and _pressing_ on them as fingers poking a bruise.  
  
The psychic onslaught was worse than the feel of the arrow piercing his skin. Over and over again he saw the glassy look in his mother's eyes . . . he was reminding of how _red_ the blood of the Orcs was as they turned the den inside out with their scourge of vengeance. And yet, it was not enough to assuage the guilt they felt, the _blame_ . . . From the distance, he could feel as Elrohir's fears about his own choice were brought to life. He feared the black veils of a mortal death, and yet, he would brave through it for him if that was what he chose. Together, always _together_ they would go, and -  
  
He forced himself to cut through his twin's thoughts, bearing through the mental onslaught as if he were a tree with deep roots in a storm. Today would not be the day they faced such an end, he decided fiercely. It would not. _Hold on_ , he thought as Elrohir drew in a shaky breath, trying to stand tall through Sauron's onslaught. _Just, hold on . . ._  
  
 _Focus on your own fight_ , Elrohir hissed at him. He tried to dampen their connection, but to no avail – he could not when his mental energies were being expended elsewhere.  
  
 _I would_ _be_ _, if you did not distract me to begin with_ , Elladan tried to return, but the Orc before him was faster than he first had thought, and he narrowly avoided a slash across his abdomen. He snapped his elbow back, and connected with the second Orc's jaw, even as the creature's sword glanced across his arm. The cut was superficial, but it burned – inciting his annoyance more than anything else as he turned away from the blade.  
  
 _Careful_ , Elrohir said without humor, and Elladan stumbled when he felt another pain pierce his abdomen – an arrow to the side, he diagnosed, gritting his teeth against the white-hot sensation.  
  
 _Careful!_ He gave in return, what he tried to make teasing was instead a sound of worry between their minds. He could then feel where Elrohir was being forcibly turned away from the battle – Glorfindel, Elladan thought, thankful. The feeling of shadow was growing, _growing_ – but it was growing as if chased . . . The Three rings, he understood then. They would be able to triumph over the shadow of Sauron's spirit as long as the One Ring was far from his grasp, and their goal was almost realized as Sauron rose even higher, blocking out the sun above with the great span of his shadow.  
  
 _Hold on_ , he thought once more. _Just hold on . . . your fight is almost done._  
  
And yet, even as he helped his brother through his pain – forcing him to keep consciousness as he was turned away from the battle – his own battle became perilous indeed. His distraction had cost him, and the pair of Orc had pushed him back to the edge of the ravine, where there was nothing but a sudden drop waiting behind him and Gundabad steel poised before him. He needed to focus, to concentrate, and yet, it was hard to do so when he could not tell one battle from the other.  
  
The first Orc was laughing - _laughing,_ the thought burned. They were not moving quickly to finish him, he realized, seeing where their blows were teasing as they toyed with him – not understanding the cause for his pain and distraction, but taking advantage of it anyway.  
  
That was, until -  
  
He heard a whooshing noise whistle through the air, and then the first Orc fell, an arrow protruding from the back of his skull. The Orc's eyes widened almost comically in surprise, while his mouth gaped – but then his body toppled, his life gone as quickly as they blow had been set.  
  
“Elladan!” Estel called from the tree. He turned just as the remaining Orc did to see where the human child had balanced precariously in the branches to brace himself for a clean shot with his bow.  
  
Elladan felt both gratitude and fear fill him as he realized that Estel had given his position away. He hunched over even as Elrohir did, unable to breathe as he felt another body slam into his own upon the battlefield, stealing his breath away as Glorfindel moved to face their newest foe. Their connection was too much between them, _too much_ , but he could not find the means to dampen it. He couldn't, when he sharing his brother's pain was the very thing keeping him upright as chaos reigned around him, and -  
  
Estel was quick to reload his bow again, but this time the Orc saw him, and batted the second arrow harmlessly away. He stalked forward – forgetting about Elladan in his anger as he moved towards the tree. The third arrow Estel fired was wildly off-mark, and his hands shook as he loaded his forth arrow.  
  
 _Estel, Estel, Estel_ , Elladan thought wildly, struggling to get to his feet again. He had to -  
  
Finally, he felt as a great blue weight settled upon the bond he bore with his twin. So immersed as he was then with Vilya, and entwined with both Galadriel and Gandalf as they wielded their own Rings, his father was able to cut his connection with Elrohir, even across such a distance. He did so just as Elladan blinked against the visage of a massive eye, wreathed in flame and blooming from the shadow of his spirit . . . for the Ring-bearers were not the only ones in their minds then. They were not alone, but _shared_ as Sauron saw the boy he had long hunted, and Sauron _knew_ . . .  
  
The fierce rush of protectiveness he felt then was enough to break him free from his haze. _No_ , he thought. _He is_ _ours_ _, and you_ _shall touch him not. Not again_ _shall_ _you_ _-_  
  
“Little boy, little boy,” the Orc taunted in a sing-song voice as he drew himself up into the first branch. Estel was trying to climb higher, but he would not do so quick enough, Elladan saw as he rushed forward. “Foolish _dead_ little boy -”  
  
Elladan did not think, he flipped the grip of his sword in his hand and threw it as a spear with every ounce of strength he had left within him, wildly hoping -  
  
It was a clean blow. The force with which it was thrown embedded the sword through the scaled armor the Orc wore, and found its place as it sank in deep. The Orc gave a strangled noise in surprise, and then fell from the tree, making a sickening sound as he landed. Elladan stalked forward, satisfied as he turned the body over to find him dead.  
  
He knelt down, still out of breath in both the wake of the battle and he sharing his brother's pain. Though their bond was now muted thanks to Elrond's interference, he could still feel where Elrohir fought, and Elrohir _struggled_ . . .  
  
“Elladan?” Estel jumped from the lower branches to land right beside him. He ignored the corpse at his side to kneel down next to him, his bright grey eyes expressive with his worry and fear. “Elladan, are you -”  
  
He reached over to place a hand on the boy's shoulder. “I am well,' he assured, even as the battle swelled beyond him, reaching its pinnacle . . .  
  
He was still kneeling upon the ground when he felt the exact moment when Sauron fled. The Maia's evil spirit snapped like a cord before flying to the south-east like a storm. Birds took from the trees at the black breath upon the air, and the river splashed angrily in its cradle as the land itself recoiled from Sauron's flight.  
  
Elladan winced, his very bones hurting with the evil presence hovering over the land, until – suddenly - it was over as quickly as it began. The land stilled, and he felt as if he could breathe once more.  
  
“What . . .” Estel tried to catch his breath. “What was that?” he asked. His eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed – he having felt the rippling of Sauron's passing as they all did.  
  
“That,” Elladan had to try twice to speak, “was proof of our success.”  
  
“And earlier?” Estel asked, his words coming quickly with his concern. “Is Elrohir alright?”  
  
Elladan closed his eyes, and felt for his twin once more. This time, Elrond let his presence through, and he felt a dull pain echo in his own body as he took stock of his brother's wounds. “He will live,” he finally answered, “I believe that his pride shall remained wounded more than anything else. An Orc archer got the best of him – of which I plan to tease him about for centuries.”  
  
Estel let loose a deep breath. “Good,” he answered, nodding his head in relief. “That is very good.”  
  
Finally, the gravity of what he had done set in. Estel blinked, and sank to sit on the ground, staring numbly at the Orc who had come so close to being his end.  
  
“You saved me again,” Estel said in a small voice. “I -”  
  
“And you saved me,” Elladan cut in, nodding his head at the first Orc, still further off – the boy's arrow a telling mark from the battle. “Just like your father did more than once,” he said, touching Estel's cheek fondly. He still could not quite catch his breath. “Brave and loyal to a fault, as was he.”  
  
Estel flushed, and looked down. When he glanced back up, his pale expression had hardened into something satisfied – something that was both strong and pleased. Elladan gave a smile of his own, pride for Estel's courage and bravery filling him as a warmth greater than the cold the shadow had previously inspired, even as -  
  
“Although, next time, when I tell you to _stay in the tree_ -”  
  
“I did stay in the tree,” Estel protested, his face forming a deceivingly innocent expression. “I did not leave the branches.”  
  
“You are dealing with technicalities, young one,” he pushed the child's shoulder, rolling his eyes as he said so.  
  
“Which worked out for the best,” Estel pointed out. “I . . . before I ignored your counsel out of pride, but here . . .” Here it was different, here it was more than pride, and he was thankful for the child's recklessness – truly he was. Someday, it would not be termed recklessness, but _bravery_ , and he felt pride bloom inside of him for the man Aragorn would soon become.  
  
Elladan's face softened, unable as he was to keep his cold expression. “Wise indeed,” was all he said as he struggled to his feet again.  
  
“Now,” Elladan said, placing his full weight on his leg to find the phantom pain now gone, “We should return. The sun is setting, and there will be those in the valley looking to hear what I may tell them.”  
  
Estel nodded, and accepted the hand he offered to help him to his feet. He dusted himself off, and smiled cheekily – spent adrenaline and boneless relief a heady mixture when felt for the first. “We need to stop having such _adventures_ when leaving the valley,” he said as they started down the trail again. “Elsewise, Lord Elrond will never let us out the door again.”  
  
Elladan smiled, and knocked the child's shoulder as they walked. “Already, young Estel,” he said with a solemn gravity, “You are wise beyond your years.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
As it was with all journeys and their endings, their return trip home was much more peaceful than their first time trekking over the mountains.  
  
This time, Bilbo Baggins was able to enjoy the scenery around him – not running for his life and dodging all sorts of unsavory and dark things along the way. He could almost fool himself into thinking that he was on a rather long walking holiday, though the woods and hills he passed through were far away from the Shire indeed.  
  
Rivendell was quieter this time, though he knew that was mainly from the absense of his companions. He had become quite used to a ruckus at the dinner table; to loud songs and jovial laughter and _lif_ _e_. And now . . .  
  
As always, thoughts of the fallen caused a curious sort of weight to settle in his stomach – as if he had swallowed a stone and his body could not quite figure out what to do with it. Though he had his share of differences with the late Dwarf-king, there was no denying the majesty and tragedy of Thorin Oakenshield's tale . . . While the legends would say one thing, Bilbo would remember the one he still considered a friend, and it was the loss of his friendship that he mourned more than anything else.  
  
Rivendell was made for such reflection, Bilbo thought next. It was a warm day, late in the spring, and the waterfalls fell in crystalline shapes, their cascades flashing prismed colors as they caught on the sunlight. The land sung, soothing his thoughts as he reflected on them. The Last Homely House eased his pains and provided rest to his bones . . . bones which felt heavy within his skin now . . . very heavy indeed.  
  
He sat on the lip of one of the fountains, quite content as he smoked his pipe and made grey rings dance upon the air. He had not realized how sensitive Elvish noses were during his first time in the valley, and it was not until Gandalf telling him so that he understood the kindness of doing so outside in the open air. It was better for the tomes he looked over too, he thought – which had been a great relief to the steward, an unsmilling fellow named Erestor, though he did not say so outright. Bilbo was simply glad for the chance to pass more time within thelibrary of Imladris. There was such a wealth of stories and their telling here, each adventure all but waiting for his eyes to live themselves anew . . .  
  
Yes, quite healing indeed, he thought as he flipped to the next page.  
  
While he could not see anyone else, he had been aware of a pair of eyes watching him for some time now. The _knowing_ he felt was a bit of a sixth sense that he had picked up on the road - with so many sleepless nights passing while they were pursued by creatures black and fell. The awareness was a habit he had yet to shake.  
  
Odd, he thought, how this step was heavy to his ears. Most of the Elves he had met were as light on their feet as hobbits were, and -  
  
When next he looked up, he saw a little boy standing in front of him, peering down from over the top of his book. Curiously, he looked up at the child, taking in his mop of curling black hair and the odd brightness to his clear grey eyes . . . a brightness not quite unlike the light of the Elves. He spied next the curved shell of his ear, realizing that he spoke to a child of one of the Big-folk – a son of Men.  
  
Curious indeed, he thought . . . most curious.  
  
“You are not an Elf,” the child said simply, peering into his eyes much as Bilbo had been staring at his own.  
  
“Neither are you,” Bilbo returned, putting the book aside so as to better see the boy as he spoke.  
  
The child gave a half smile, looking impishly up from beneath his bangs. He too held a scroll from the library just beyond – a study on Númenor of old, Bilbo saw, the name touching _something_ at the edge of his mind. Along with the scroll, the child had a long and handsome feather that he was using as a place marker. The feather was nearly as long as Bilbo's forearm, colored a familiar shade of golden brown . . . He puzzled over such an oddity for a moment, before – ah!  
  
“The Wind-lords were once kind enough to give us aid against some rather unsavory folk,” Bilbo nodded towards the feather, understanding at once what he saw. Ever did he enjoy telling his tales, and watching the curiosity leap in the young eyes before him was no exception. “I remember pressing my face against their feathers and holding on for dear life – so, you see, I would remember such a thing anywhere.”  
  
“I climbed to the nests with my brothers and Lord Elrond at the spring's beginning,” he revealed, pride filling his eyes and puffing up his small chest as he did so. “The Wind-lords welcomed me, and gave me a gift.”  
  
“And a kingly gift it is,” Bilbo agreed. There was something almost familiar about his eyes, he could not help but think. There was something there that tickled the back of his mind . . . something that was _more_ than first met the eye.  
  
“I am sorry,” Bilbo said a moment later, shaking his head at his own rudeness. “I must admit that my time spent with too many dwarves to mention has made my manners quite rusty. My name is Bilbo Baggins, of Bag-End – that is, if my infernal relatives have not yet torn each other to pieces fighting for it.”  
  
The boy smiled, amused. “My name is Estel Elrondion,” he said in return, holding out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.”  
  
Bilbo shook his hand, amused. “Estel . . . _hope_?” he translated, knowing a story when he saw one. A human boy with an Elvish _epess_ _ë_ , and an Elf-lord's own name given instead of his father's . . . Yes, Bilbo reflected, there was quite the story here indeed.  
  
“I am told so often,” the boy's – Estel's - eyes twinkled in a way that was all the Elves in shape.  
  
“Well then,” Bilbo sat back, exhaling a ring of smoke as he did so. “The afternoon is drowsy, and I have found myself quite mourning the loss of my company. If you would not mind humoring a rather odd hobbit, I would like to hear your tale of the Wind-lords.”  
  
Estel bit his lip and glanced down at his scrolls before making up his mind. He smiled, and sat beside him on the lip of the fountain, his eyes alight with his words as he gathered them to share.  
  
“It started,” he began his tale, “when my brothers and I left the valley, right before Midsummer's Eve . . .”


	41. "strangers in a strange land"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin & Gilraen || Prompt: _Homesick_ , Free-write
> 
> I swear this is the last of the Hobbit-esque ficlets. For now. ;)

**Homesick**  
  
For some, entering the Last Homely House was said to be akin to stepping into a song of old. There was healing to be found in the water; there was peace for the having on the air. Everywhere one turned there was good cheer and wise faces, and yet, Thorin Oakenshield had never felt more restless in a place before.  
  
Not even the Shire, with its quaint rolling hills and rather simple folk, had put him this on edge. He would rather be folded into Bilbo Baggin's hobbit-sized hobbit-hole once more before he rested his head beneath Elrond's roof. The air in the valley made his skin itch; it made his breath quicken with a nameless disquiet. _Magic_ , many in his company had whispered as they passed over the river into the city, from wide eyed Bilbo to wise old Balin who held stories in his bones. Even his own nephews had looked on in awe and silent wonder, and yet . . .  
  
He had never felt further from Erebor as he did standing beneath the eaves of Rivendell, and that was the honest truth of the matter.  
  
He had spent too long in the sun for such thoughts to be plaguing him, he thought ruefully. Too long had he dwelt upon the ground, rather than beneath it, far from the stone halls of his true home. More was Erebor than the might of his people. The mountain was their very soul, born as they were from the rock and the hot breath of the Maker, and his heart ached all the more so with each season that he passed away from the Lonely Mountain.  
  
They had already tarried in the valley for nearly two weeks. Beyond him, in the Hall of Fire, the sounds of songs and laughter could be heard as the Elves marked the summer solstice with celebration and good cheer. His own folk had joined in with the festivities; grudgingly at first, and more for the wine that was served than any true wish to socialize with their hosts, truth be told. He could hear the deep sounds of dwarven songs attempting to rise above those of the Elves as they were sung. He imagined the look on the face of the leading minstrel – Lindir, Thorin believed he was called – and felt a smile tug on the corner of his mouth, despite himself.  
  
Beyond the main dwellings, the gardens were a grand combination of natural beauty and a careful eye for planting alongside both crafted fountain and the natural flow of water from above. While the gardens were beautiful enough – dwarf as he was, he could appreciate beauty in all things, even in things he himself cared but little for - they were merely another reminder of the strange timelessness of the land about him. Better did he appreciate root and soil than the fair things that grew from the ground, and so, he made fists of his hands as he walked, preventing himself from reaching down to pick up handfuls of the black earth. It had been too long since he molded something – anything – and now, better did his hands know the feel of a sword to a smith's hammer.  
  
His thoughts heavy, he turned down a small path, not wanting to encounter any other on his wanderings. Here the roses grew wild and unbound from their trellises, nearly spilling across the stone path as they grew up the mountainside bordering the city. These blooms were dark, he saw, the red hardly visible in the light of the setting sun. The thorns were hardy and wild looking, the vines tangled and untrained. He blinked, and recognized these from the lands to the northwest - from the forests of Rhudaur. A strange choice, he thought then, different as they were from the more exotic blooms he had seen coaxed to grow in the beds he had passed. These roses were small and stubborn, made to grow in harsh soil, with little sun and the coldest of weather. This plant was a survivor, Thorin knew, taken deep from the forest lands.  
  
Curious, he continued down the path, only stopping when he heard voices coming from a small alcove made by the rose covered trellises and sharply rising stone.  
  
He peered through a gap in the foliage to see a woman with dark, honey blonde hair gathered beneath a black veil, sitting on the lip of a basin that caught the falling water from the rock above. She was speaking to none other than the lord of the valley himself – and upon seeing so, Thorin fought the urge he had to step back down the path. And yet, something had his gaze returning to the woman in black, drawn despite himself. He had heard tell that Elrond had a daughter – some ethereal beauty, the stories said - and a wife departed over the sea some time ago. And yet, this woman was neither . . . for when she moved, he could see the curved shell of a human ear, declaring her as mortal-kind.  
  
A human woman? Thorin puzzled. Though Rivendell was a haven to all, for a daughter of Men to take Elrond's attention from his kin and their celebrating the solstice was curious indeed. They were speaking, and Thorin pressed closer, wanting to hear what they said.  
  
The Elf-lord had piercing eyes, _knowing_ eyes, and Thorin cared but little for holding his gaze for too long. He had avoided their host for the majority of their stay, and he would continue to do so for as long as he could. Gandalf swore that the long memories in the valley could reveal a secret now lost to his kind, and if the Wizard spoke true, he would be indebted - but no more grateful than that. Yet, while Thorin did not care for holding Elrond's stare, this human woman had no such qualms. She tilted her head up with a graceful dignity, and was somehow made all the more so by the dark shade of her garb, marking her as a shadow on the brightness of the valley around her.  
  
Thorin listened, and he heard -  
  
“Perhaps there will be a Midsummer's Eve in the future where you shall at last convince me to join in the revelry,” the woman's voice was soft with both firm refusal and gentle appreciation. “And yet, for now, I would rather keep my own vigil. I . . .” she exhaled and glanced down, her strong veneer cracking the slightest bit.  
  
She bit her lip, visibly gathering herself. “One day I shall do so,” she finally said, a note of finality in her voice. “And yet, that day shall not be today.”  
  
Elrond was silent for a moment, and where Thorin thought that he would push, he instead inclined his head. There was an understanding in his gaze, and his eyes were soft with that same kindness that unsettled Thorin more than anything else – such a thing at odds with his own deeply rooted notions, his own bruised history. “Then I will leave you to your memories,” Elrond said, his voice gentle. “But know that there are those here who would welcome sharing your burdens, once you are ready to see their load lightened.”  
  
She looked down in answer to his words, but she did not speak – she could not find her voice, Thorin would wager, and upon feeling the thickness of the emotion upon the air, he turned from his spot, not wishing to pry any further.  
  
Yet, as he did so, Elrond too turned to take his leave, and Thorin quickly moved out of the way - hoping that he went unseen in the shadows growing on the path. Elrond did not turn to him, and Thorin thought himself to be successful; that was, until he saw the amused glint that settled in the Elf-lord's gaze - a glint that Thorin knew well enough from the likes of Gandalf to understand in full. He let out an aggravated breath between his teeth, annoyed.  
  
He turned to continue on down the path, and yet, he paused before passing the human woman in her alcove. That same something that inclined him to listen now slowed his step and had him looking in on the woman in black – staring until the weight of his eyes gave him away, and the woman frowned.  
  
She did not look up. Instead, she said on a sigh, “Glorfindel, you are much more persistent than your lord if you think that you can succeed where he - ”  
  
“I am no elf, my lady,” Thorin broke through her words, his deep voice immediately separating him from any other she may have thought him to be.  
  
She blinked and looked up, startled, and yet, the surprise on her face softened upon seeing him. She did not stand from her seat by the fountain, instead staying where she was eye to eye with him. She did, however, incline her head, curiosity lifting the veil of sorrow from her eyes.  
  
“Indeed you are not,” she said, smoothing her hands over the front of her skirts. She reached up to wipe discreetly at her eyes. “I apologize for my error.”  
  
“There is no need,” Thorin replied. “You do not resemble the fair folk yourself, and I must admit myself as being puzzled. It was that which drew me from the path.”  
  
And she was a riddle, he acknowledged to himself - for she did not have the wild look of the Dunlendings about her, nor did she resemble the simple sons of men remaining from Minhiriath and Enedwaith, who moved to join the Middle Men in Bree-land. Rather, she was more like the people from the forests - the remnants of Arnor and old Númenor itself. This he knew from learning his histories while preparing to someday rule from his grandfather's throne.  
  
“Tell me,” he said, recognizing the noble tilt of her brow – the regal way in which she held herself, “What is a Lady of the Dúnedain doing so far from Rhudaur? Should you not be with your kin, celebrating the solstice?”  
  
“No longer do I claim such a title amongst my people,” she replied first. She raised a brow, and yet, if she was put off by the frankness of dwarven tongues, she made no mention of it. “And while you are observant, you cannot see that I do dwell amongst my kin - for the stories have long stopped telling of such things in anything more than whispers.”  
  
Thorin waited, but she did not elaborate. Instead, she titled her head, and introduced herself, “I am Gilraen, daughter of Dírhael. I was born of the Dúnedain, but no longer do I dwell amongst them. I am a refugee, the same as you, for Imladris took me in when I needed its protection, and I am not yet in a position to return to my people.”  
  
He found his jaw setting. “I am Thorin, son of Thraín,” he gave his name in reply. “And yet, I seek not of such refuge,” he added, liking but little of the implications in her words. “I dwell here only for answers to questions I cannot answer alone.”  
  
“And yet, something tells me that you shall find both peace and your answers to be one and the same. Most do,” Gilraen rolled her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “For you too are far from home, are you not, Master-dwarf?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her words. She spoke them plainly, as fact rather than question. The warm grey of her eyes held a clear quality that he did not quite know how to translate.  
  
“I am sorry to have disrupted your vigil,” he said after a moment, not wanting to respond to her words. He looked behind him on the path again.  
  
“The gardens are free to all,” Gilraen said. Her mouth made a rueful shape. “And I do apologize for not being the best of company. I believe I have made you uncomfortable, and that was not my intention.”  
  
A moment passed between them, with nothing but the sound of the falling water and the singing from beyond filling the onset of night.  
  
“These roses are yours, then?” Thorin asked when the silence stretched. He felt as if he should apologize, and yet, he was unsure of what precisely he would be apologizing for. “They are from Rhuduar, are they not? I have passed through the north forests before – seeking what work and shelter I could find while traveling back to my kin in the Blue Mountains. Your people were kind, and generous when they had little to give.”  
  
“That does sound like Aranor. He is as Arador his brother was when he led my people,” she said, fondness touching her smile like a ghost. “Yes indeed, I brought these roses to the valley. My husband used to bring me these flowers when we were courting – and long after, at that. I was married on a Midsummer's Eve twelve years ago . . . and eight years ago I was made a widow when my husband was slain. I needed something tangible with which to busy myself from my grief, and this corner of the gardens holds the fruit of my labors.”  
  
That explained her robes of black, and the sorrow that clung to her as a cloak. Thorin swallowed and found his throat thick, for this was ever proving to be a land of widows and fatherless boys. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice deep and grave – and true, for the empathy in his bones was the same as his pulse then, drawing him breath for breath.  
  
“I keep his memory here,” Gilraen replied in a soft voice, looking down to hold one of the dark blooms in her hands. The red was stark against the pale shade of her skin. “I have tried to join in the festivities in years before, but I do find them to be . . . too much when I am not able to match such good cheer. I detest when all is peace and tranquility, and yet, I alone am filled with such sorrow . . . it is as if my memories are a stain to the beauty around me. Sometimes, it is easier to bear that alone.”  
  
“Perhaps I may at least empathize with your wish for peace and solitude. I have heard more of elvish songs these last two weeks than I ever cared to hear at all,” Thorin said. Amusement touched her eyes in response to his words.  
  
“There is a healing to the songs that I appreciate,” she said, not outrightly disagreeing with him. “And yet, I do prefer hearing them at a distance some nights. My years make me as a child in the eyes of even the youngest elf, and, as such, all in the valley see it as their personal duty to see to my comfort and health in all things. Though they mean well, I do wish to remember Arathorn alone on nights like these.”  
  
She was silent for a moment, and he let her find her words, “And you?” she glanced at him. “You must have had a reason for not passing me on by, even if that reason was not consciously known to you at the time. Who is it that you mourn, Master-dwarf? Who haunts your steps this eve?”  
  
Thorin was drawn short, made silent by her insight. There had been a cord drawing him towards her, and that same cord had bound him even when he wished to turn away. The solstice was filled with memory for him – old memories, so far from his reach that he at times found them to be as specters amongst his own mind.  
  
Unbidden, he remembered how the sunstones high on the summit of the mountain would capture the light on the longest day of the year and reflected it down through crystals into Thrór's halls. The light had shone with such a brilliant glory, making all seem touched by gold and its radiant splendor. He remembered sneaking through the halls with Frerin and Dís, stealing out to Dale beyond to see the human children as they celebrated the solstice with bright colors and loud songs. He remembered, and . . .  
  
He mourned not a mate, but rather a name, a match of spirits that was as true a marriage as any other. He mourned a land, he wanted to say - a beautiful land of mountain stone and halls threaded through the deep places of the earth. He mourned for a stolen kingdom, toiling underneath the desecration of an evil creature. For years, he had longed for, rather than mourning the loss of Erebor. It was as if his mourning would make his loss _real_ . . . as if such grief would make it permanent, and so, he had concentrated only on its return, and let his thoughts of vengeance sustain him.  
  
. . . Erebor was not yet lost to him, not so long as he had a breath within him to see it returned and restored to its glory of old.  
  
And so. “Home . . . I mourn my home this eve,” he finally answered, unable to find the words to say more than that. For, truly, what words were there to explain the gap in his spirit that was Erebor _lost_ and Erebor _stolen?_ No . . . there were no words.  
  
“Ah,” Gilraen said on an exhale. Her eyes were alight with understanding, and he knew that she would not make him say more than that.  
  
Beyond them, the revelry had quieted, and one lone voice started to sing once the last of the sun's rays touched the mountains beyond, declaring the onset of night. The voice was low and mournful, and yet, there was a power to the song - giving hope and thanksgiving for the light, even as it died and the older glory of the stars came out to reign for the night.  
  
Thorin exhaled, and Gilraen started to softly sing along, still holding the rose in her small hands. A long moment passed, and finally, he went to sit on the opposite side of the basin from her. Rather than listening to the elven singer beyond, he instead listened to the cadence of the water as it fell. He concentrated on the heartbeat of the earth beneath his feet, on the music of the stones as they thanked the sky above for the warmth of the day. He listened, not to the minstrel, but rather to the human woman's unpolished voice as she sang, her words full with both her mourning and her hope for the light to come.  
  
And . . . for the first since reaching the valley, he did not feel quite so far from home.  
  



	42. "thrown before fists"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finarfin & Fingolfin || Prompt: _Between_ , Free-write

**Between**  
  
At first, his plan had seemed to be a sensible one.  
  
Of course, the rain from the day before had turned the path through the grove behind the palace to mud, and the brambles from underbrush snared at his tunic as if trying to keep him in the hade of the trees. He was sodden, and the tan skin of his boots was now caked the color of mud, and yet, it had been worth it. He had felt only relief, even as he wiped his damp hair from his face. The first days of summer were thick and humid with the spring rains still lingering on the air, and the sky above seemingly pressed down on to smother the ground below.  
  
Unfortunately, his trials were for nothing, for when he came out on the other side of the path - slipping back into the gate closest to his father's halls like a thief rather than a prince - _they_ were waiting for him.  
  
Arafinwë sighed, resigned, and briefly thought himself as cursed.  
  
“We meet again,” still, he forced his voice to come out clear and level. He tilted his head up, refusing to look down. The gold atop his head was very bright, he knew, even underneath the grey of the overcast sky.  
  
By the time he slipped away from them, his lip was swollen and bruised, and his books were hopelessly muddled from where they had spilled from his pack. At least, he reflected as he gathered his things together, the blood on his mouth had ended the insults rather early. The older boys had all fled, whispers of _the king's son_ falling from hushed mouths as they all fled their separate ways. Such a reaction was queer, Arafinwë thought, for the cut on his lip only stung, and he would take that brief discomfort over the continued blows of their words a hundred times over.  
  
Yet, he was young. Perhaps it was something he would understand better with time.  
  
He had not made it but steps towards his rooms before one of his mother's ladies noticed him, and then there was a flurry of movement and questions and seeking hands all around him. He was washed and then put into clean clothing, sitting silent and still as his mother shooed her ladies away to dab a minty smelling salve on his lip herself. He forced himself to remain still at the cold sensation, instinctively wanting to draw away.  
  
When asked what happened, he looked down and said that he fell and hit the rim of the fountain. The stone ways were still slick from the rain, and it was a plausible explanation. It was the truth, as well,  minus the part about him slipping. Yet, he kept that thought to himself, not wanting to worry his mother any further. She always had a way of knowing when his words were less than their whole, and so, he kept his words as close to the truth as he could.  
  
Not close enough, it would seem, for a moment later Indis sighed and tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were very blue, he thought, like the gems Fëanáro liked to dabble with. His own eyes were more like hers than his father's - unlike the rest of his siblings, who were clearly Finwë's children from the identical shade of their black hair to the clear grey of their eyes.  
  
And then, there was him, who was small and slight like Indis. His skin was pale, more pink than the olive undertones his father and siblings bore. His features were Vanya-delicate, with not one of the stronger features of his Noldo father to be seen. His hair was as Laurelin's light when she was at her full brilliance, bright and gold and not the slightest bit Noldor _at all_.  
  
Perhaps he thought his last thought too loudly, for Indis looked away from him a moment later. Her jaw was tight, even though her face was carefully serene – the look she wore when she was upon her throne, Arafinwë recognized.  
  
But next she blinked, and she then looked like his mother again. “My son,” was all that she said, kissing the top of his head as she did so. Her quiet voice sounded like an apology.  
  
Her arms were warm, and she smelled like sunrise and spring. Though he was much too old for such things, Arafinwë let himself be held for a moment longer, the embrace soothing away the events of the day. Indis let him go a heartbeat later, and he turned to leave after promising to be more careful in the future. He looked over his shoulder before passing through the door into the hall beyond, and saw that her face was sad when she thought he could not see.  
  
Later, he was carefully smoothing out the pages on his abused books, each tomes about seashells and their classifications, borrowed from the library a few days before. He had so many questions that he wanted answered before they visited Alqualondë later in the summer, and yet, he did not want the library's keeper to think him careless with what he borrowed. So, he strove to return the books to how they were before his encounter with Atsion. He was working, slowly and surely, when a shadow fell over him, long in shape.  
  
He did not look up. “Nolofinwë,” he greeted his brother, having _felt_ him as he came near – his presence ever like the ocean on a calm day, lapping against his senses as if he were a seashore. This too was his mother's gift to him, and one that he valued.  
  
Arafinwë felt a warm hand tilt his chin up, drawing him away from his books. Ever were the points of brother's fingers like brands, for Nolofinwë was the most like their father where he was the most like their mother – and Finwe was ever a fire, warm and consuming. Nolofinwë was nearly three decades older than him, he having reached his majority just the year before. He was as tall and broad as their father, and yet, Arafinwë did not feel small next to him - even though Findis often teased him with saying that he was nearly a foot shorter than his siblings were at his age.  
  
Dutifully, he let his brother examine his split lip, and where there had been sadness on Indis' face, something hard settled on Nolofinwë's brow in response to what he saw. His ocean-soul picked up a ripple, as waves rumbling in warning of a storm.  
  
“You slipped and hit the fountain?” Nolofinwë said, his voice warm and deep. Arafinwë could hear the question there, even though he spoke with no inflection in his tone.  
  
“Yes,” he answered, looking back down at his book again. The page on mollusks had suffered when Atsion had kicked it, and Arafinwë did not know if he would be able to coax the wrinkles away.  
  
He did not need to look up to see that Nolofinwë raised a brow, dubious. He could feel it.  
  
“I may have been pushed,” he muttered a moment later, not looking up from the page. One wrinkle fled before his careful fingers, but there was a larger one down the middle that was beyond hope. Mud muddled the words and distorted the carefully penned pictures. He was not sure how to mend that.  
  
The feeling of storm and waves picked up. Arafinwë could feel the undertow churning beneath them.  
  
“You should have told Amil,” Nolofinwë said a moment later. “She already knows, and yet, it is better to hear it from you rather than glimpse such a thing in your thoughts.”  
  
Arafinwë set his mouth. He moved on to the next page, the mollusks past his ability to save. He pressed his first finger against the wrinkle that greeted him until the skin at his fingertip turned white and bloodless.  
  
“If I did so, I would have to tell her why I was pushed,” Arafinwë said softly. “I would not do so.”  
  
The whispers were not new to him. He could hear them whenever he was near any crowd of people, especially in his father's court. Though they were rarely spoken where he could overhear, he could still _feel_ them, the same as he could sense the ocean of his brother's soul. He could read the stares, he could hear the hearts of those who looked at his mother and called her the false-queen. _H_ _er_ son, the whispers would turn next to him - who looked so much like Indis and so little like Finwë. _Born of the Vanya-whore . . ._ _N_ _ot-real . . ._ _N_ _ot-right . . . Filthy . . . an insult to her memory_ . . . the words went on and on.  
   
. . . and he would not repeat such things to his mother - his mother, who could _feel_ the thoughts of others as he did.  
   
No.  
  
He tapped his fingers against the wrinkled page, frustrated.  
  
A moment passed before Nolofinwë said, “You can fight back,” in a gentle voice.  
  
Arafinwë shrugged. “I ignore them. My doing so frustrates them; it makes them angry. They want me to fight back, and so, I do not.” _Typical Vanyar_ , they always said in reply. _Weak and unable to fight – but able to steal. Do you know that you do not belong, little Vanya?_ Ever did they mock and sing, and their words always became worse when he said nothing in reply. And if he dared to smile, as if pitying their small and simple views, if he dared to say that he was proud of his Vanya blood, his Vanya hair and Vanya eyes, if being Noldor meant to act as _they_ did . . .  
  
Well, that was when Atsion finally pushed him.  
  
“Then you will have many more bleeding lips in the future, I foresee,” Nolofinwë said dryly. “Come.” He took the book from him, and though Arafinwë did not want to, he let his brother draw him to his feet.  
  
“Now,” Nolofinwë said. “You stand like this.” He stood with his feet even with his shoulders and his knees slightly bent, easy and balanced within his tall frame. He looked more and more like their father with every passing season, Arafinwë thought, and felt a pang that he himself did not.  
  
Arafinwë copied him, making a fist – holding one to his chin to protect his face, and then another out, as his brother did.  
  
“Not like that,” Nolofinwë said. “You will break your thumb before harming anything on your opponent,” he fixed the position of his fingers.  
  
“But I do not want to break anything on my opponent,” Arafinwë said, fighting down the numb, queasy sensation that he had at the thought of fighting anyone.  
  
“And hopefully, you shall not have to,” Nolofinwë said, his voice low and comforting. “When they see that you are prepared to defend yourself, that alone shall help deter bullies. More often than not, they are cowards at heart, and do not wish for an equal confrontation - they wish only to pick on those weaker than they. Use your words first, as I know you would prefer. But if ever things go too far, I want you to know how to defend yourself.”  
  
He let out a breath, but let his brother shape him. He did not like how his closed fist felt; he did not like the coiled energy that met him when he jabbed experimentally with nothing but the air to absorb the force of his blow. It did not feel . . . right, and he could not tell if that was the Vanya in him, or just he . . . himself.  
  
It was hard to tell which was what, at times, he thought next. He did not feel akin to his father's people, and yet, neither did he identify with his mother's people. It was because he was _both_ , he was something more, Indis always said when he tried to explain his feelings, and while that made sense, it still provided him with no definite answers. He still felt as a visitor in his own skin, not quite fitting. That too, was something that would pass with time, or so he was told.  
  
“There,” Nolofinwë finally said when he was satisfied. “More often than not, if you stand up to a bully once, that shall deter others in the future.”  
  
 _Perhaps_ , Arafinwë thought, even if he did not quite believe. And yet . . .  
  
“You speak as if from experience,” he said, curious as to that which he did not know.  
  
“I do,” Nolofinwë said, a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “You may look the most like Amil, but that did not mean that we did not go through the same thing when we were younger. Findis had this same conversation with me when I was your age, and I benefited from it.”  
  
Arafinwë nodded, understanding. “Yes, I would not want to fight Findis either,” he said in a grave voice. Where his brother was as an ocean, their oldest sister was like lightning in the sky. She always danced across his senses like static, to the point where there were times when her presence almost tickled. It took much to move her from her calm, but in anger she was truly frightening.  
  
“Neither would I,” Nolofinwë agreed, amusement lining his voice. “That's what they learned the hard way.”  
  
That, he could imagine as truth. And yet . . . Findis had to go through this . . . Nolofinwë had to go through this. He could not imagine anyone being cruel to Lalwen, for Lalwen was gentle and loved by all – she like the Mingling Hour of the Trees' to his senses. And yet, if Lalwen too had to endure this, and came out the better for it . . .  
  
Then, Arafinwë decided, he could too.  
  
A moment passed, and his brother must have seen his thoughts pass over his face. He sat back down when Nolofinwë did as well, suddenly tired from the events of the day. He felt stretched in two different directions, a part of him never wanting to leave the walls of their home again, while the other part of him wished to go beyond the boundaries of Tirion and never stop. He let his thoughts tug on him until he felt dizzy from the effort it took to make sense of them.  
  
“You know,” Nolofinwë said, finally breaking the silence. “Sometimes, I wish that I looked more like you.”  
  
He looked up, surprised. “Truly?” he asked, not able to believe him.  
  
“Truly,” Nolofinwë confirmed, reaching over to tug on one of his braids. “If I did, then I would not look so much like _him_.” His voice was tight over the last word, and he swallowed afterward, as if trying to clear a stone from his throat. “Sometimes, I wished I looked more like me – _myself_ \- and not like . . .”  
  
 _Him_. Arafinwë did not know if he meant their father, or Fëanáro himself – for all three looked alike to the point that was uncanny. Even still, there were times that Arafinwë wished that he too looked as they did – especially when Atsion and his flunkies stopped him. Perhaps, if he looked more Noldo, then he would _feel_ more Noldo. If he looked more like Finwë, perhaps more would see that he too was Finwë's son, just as much as his firstborn was.  
  
“Is Indis really our mother?” he asked then, trying to voice something that had long sat ill at ease with him.  
  
Nolofinwë blinked, clearly surprised. “I think that she would know if she wasn't,” he answered wryly, but that was not what he meant. 

“No,” Arafinwë shook his head. “I mean, is she _really_ married to father? People say that their marriage isn't _real_ , and yet, if she is not real . . . then is she really our mother? Are any of us _real_?”  
  
Nolofinwë was silent for a long moment. Arafinwë could feel the same sadness in him that he earlier felt from their mother. “The Valar themselves decreed our parent's marriage acceptable by the Laws of our people,” he answered carefully. “We are Finwë's trueborn sons, as much as Fëanáro is.”  
  
 _The Valar said that he was real_. It should have silenced all of his doubts. It should have meant more than it did – and in that, Arafinwë reflected, he was not very Vanya-like at all. He looked down, feeling his stomach twist in an awful way.  
  
Nolofinwë put his arm around his shoulder, leaning very close to him – as if preparing to share a secret. “Do you love Amil?” he asked.  
  
What a silly question. “Of course I do,” he answered without a thought.  
  
“Do you love Atar?” Nolofinwë continued to ask. “Findis? Lalwen? Fëanáro, even?”  
  
“Yes,” he answered after a heartbeat. He spoke truly, for he even loved Fëanáro, who felt like flames - nothing but the fire and its heat - to his senses.  
  
“If the love you feel is real, how can _you_ not be real?” Nolofinwë asked him, watching and seeing where he was unable to dispute such logic. “Now, stop thinking such foolish thoughts, for they will do you ill if pondered for too long. You are Vanya as much as you are Noldo. You are born of two great peoples, and loved by those you love – you should be proud of that.”  
  
“I am proud,” he was quick to assure his brother. And . . . he was. Truly he was. Even when Atsion and the others said their cruel words and tried to push their thoughts of his worth in against him, he was still proud. They could repeat the words of their fathers to their heart's content, but it would not matter.  
  
He let out a deep breath, ready to face them again upon the morrow, if need be.  
  
“Now,” Nolofinwë pushed him to his feet again. “Show me your fist. I want to see what you remembered.”  
  
So, Arafinwë stood, and held his ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Arafinwë** : Finarfin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor


	43. "sunrise, sunset"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lúthien/Beren || Prompt: _Days_ , Free-write

**Days**  
  
It struck her then, just how painfully mortal her husband was . . . how mortal _she_ was.  
  
No matter what gift they had been given, all gifts could be taken away. This land was unkind to those toiling upon its surface, and where she was once songs and spells – power and ruin and _divinity_ all at once – she was now only human. Her veins carried only blood, and her heart beat with nothing but the few years she had remaining to her. Her weapons were now the bow upon her back and the dagger at her side. Once, she had learned to use both in order to participate in the games Doriath held during the summer months, but her skills had only ever been used in sport, with nothing but camaraderie and competition in mind.  
  
And yet, now . . .  
  
Lúthien could only protect those she cared for with what her own two hands could muster, and Beren, as ever, did the same.  
  
Their green isle was far from the shadow reigning in the north, and yet, no part of the land was untouched by Morgoth and his taint. They would not journey through Fëanorian held lands to return to Doriath – where her son had spent the winter, for she would not deprive Dior of his heritage, no matter that her own relationship with her parents had yet to fully recover – and so, they instead traveled the little known pathways through the Taur-im-Duinath, venturing to the river Sirion beyond. The paths through the forest were strange and dark, and yet, she would rather contend with the twisting shapes in the wood rather than deal with Fëanor's sons in Amon Ereb – their second and only other choice of travel without going leagues out of their way - and through more dangerous lands than that.  
  
They traveled north up the river, and made it as far as the hills of Andram before encountering the small party of Orc-scouts – looking for a way into Doriath through her mother's spells, or looking to assess the Fëanorians' numbers just to the east of the hills, she was not sure. Yet, it did not matter as she and her husband took to arms, silencing any mouth that would have told them otherwise.  
  
Her new body was slower and more cumbersome than her elven form, but it was still strong and supple enough for her to see their foes vanquished. Arrows rang out rather than words of power, and steel sang in place of spells of protection. It was a dance she was slowly learning, but learning well.  
  
She fought best by Beren's side, her body instinctively knowing the twist and turn of his, even in the heat of battle. Where his sword struck, her arrows flashed, picking off the targets threatening him while he watched her back at close range. It was all a perfect, synchronized dance until an Orc-arrow glittered black in the approaching twilight, and -  
  
Lúthien did not recognize the sound that came from her throat then. It was an ugly, desperate thing as she tried to warn Beren and turn on the archer who had slipped past their defenses all at once. The Orc fell, and yet, she only fired all the more quickly after that – two arrows she released, and then three and four and _ten_ until there was no longer a threat remaining . . . only death and stillness and Beren with a black arrow embedded in the flesh where his chest met his shoulder.  
  
The wound was not fatal. He had heard her and turned in time to take the blow just above his heart. “I am fine,” he tried to assure her. Yet, his face was white; his eyes were bleary from pain.  
  
“You have never lied well,” she tried to twist her mouth into a grim smile as she said so, but she could not force her body to listen to her commands.  
  
Her fingers trembled as she broke the shaft and then carefully removed the arrow from his arm. She observed the wound, and saw with relief that the arrowhead was not poisoned. The wound would pain him, but it would heal. Quickly, she cleaned the wound in the river and dressed it with nimble fingers. Later, when they stopped for the night, she would have to see to it better than that, but for now there were dead Orcs in the clearing, and there was no telling how many more were following.  
  
They were able to make it to the Falls of Sirion before night fell completely. Here the river dipped in massive and breathtaking shapes, its waters rushing and wild from its birthplace in the marshlands just beyond. They climbed up as far as they could while the light was still with them before settling in a defensible position for the night. She formed their small camp as quickly as she could before turning to her husband again. Beren was clearly tired from the events of the day, and yet, while he held his face in a grimace, no longer did he look to be in overwhelming pain.  
  
When at last she drew away the temporary bandages from earlier, the arrow wound was angry and red – but the blood was clotting, and it did not look to be infected. Grateful for small mercies, she treated the wound and rewrapped it once more, frustrated that she had to resort to such rustic measures to take care of him. Once, she would have been able to mend the flesh merely a song. She would have been able to see him made new, and yet, now . . .  
  
If he had not turned . . . if she had not warned him in time . . . if the archer had aimed the _slightest_ bit lower . . . she could have lost him.  
  
Thoughts of what-if were unwise in every sense, and yet, she could not keep her mind from being swallowed by them. Her thoughts turned as the water over the cliffs beyond, and she could not move her spirit to calm.  
  
“That should hold until we reach the Girdle,” she said. Her voice was too quick from her mouth, giving her agitation away. “My mother should be able to heal you completely once we reach Menegroth.”  
  
With but a word, Melian would set him to rights, while she could only watch . . . watch and hope that the Valar would continue to be kind, allowing them to live their few years together in peace. And yet, Ennor was not a kind land, and it was even crueler still to those of mortal years - who toiled with even more than the failings of their bodies during the breath of time they had allowed to them. It was hard to trust in fate and its offerings as she once had, and now, she could do nothing more than inhale and try to get her pulse to slow.  
  
She soothed her fingers down over the bandage, feeling the heat from the ruined flesh beneath. The cloth was very white against the dusky shade of his skin. When Beren reached out to wrap his hand about her wrist, she looked and saw that his eyes were dark; a shade of steel in the night.  
  
“I have survived worse,” he said, his voice shaped to steady her. His thumb traced over the fragile lines of bones underneath her skin. His fingertips were callused and thick, just as hers were starting to be. “I have already moved heaven and earth for you. It will take more than an exceptionally lucky Orc to take me from you once more.”  
  
His bravado was a show, trying to draw her own peace once more. Lúthien tried to let his reassurance touch her and sink in deep, and yet, she could not . . .  
  
She folded her opposite hand over his, feeling as the cold she had felt during the battle warmed again underneath his touch.  
  
“You will see,” Beren continued, drawing her down to lie on the grass next to him. The spring ground was still cool, but it was a soothing bed next to the heat of the fire . . . the warmth of her husband. “Someday, we shall die old and grey together. There will be naught but moments between out last breaths; for you shall go and I will follow, and we will then see what the One has in store for us together.”  
  
She laid her head against his chest, listening to the soothing rise and fall of his lungs; the steady pulse of his heart, ever beating and alive. _Alive_. The sound did not lie.  
  
“Is that foresight I hear?” she whispered. Her own heart was calming to match his own. She breathed, and breathed with him.  
  
“Not in the way you would know,” Beren allowed with a smile. He ran his hand up and down her arm, holding her securely against him. “Perhaps, I should better call it a hope . . . a wish, even.”  
  
She took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, taking his words and trying to make them her own. Hope . . . wishes . . . Each was insubstantial as mist, and yet, they were all that was to be had. All she knew was that she would do her best to see those wishes through to their fullest. She would not give him up . . . not so easily.  
  
Her fingertips were dead of her mother's might and magic, but they were still warm as she leaned over to tenderly clasp his face between her hands, sealing her vow with a kiss. When she closed her eyes, she found them burning and wet, and yet, she did not hide her tears as the kiss became heated between them. Their embrace turned possessive and claiming, almost desperate with the relief that flowed through them both. Careful of his injured arm, she moved to rest atop him, his hand on her back pressing her even closer to him. It was not close enough, she could not help but think, and where she could no longer reach out and touch his spirit with her own she instead burrowed against him – as if attempting to crawl beneath his skin and join him in the flesh, never to be parted again.  
  
She traced every familiar part of him, moving from the stubble on his chin that had so fascinated her at the first to the curved shell of his mortal ear. Each strong slope of muscle and powerful line of limb was hers to remap now, her fingers paying special attention to the missing stump of his hand, telling all where he had given up so much for her – for these years of mortality they had left to live between them.  
  
He was still here, his touch said - ever warm and consuming as he filled her senses with a now familiar heat. She could feel his blood thunder when she moved her mouth down his neck to taste his pulse – hot and aware and alive. _Alive_ , as he would be for many more years to come.  
  
And so, Lúthien brushed her thoughts away, and let herself live.


	44. "let the water wash our souls clean"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isildur, Elendil, Sauron, Ar-Pharazôn/Ar-Zimraphel || Prompt: _Faith_ , free-write
> 
>  **Warning** : In this there are numerous references to torture and human sacrifice, along with abortion, cousin-incest, and forced marriage - basically, your typical Fall of Númenor stuff. Even still, if that is something you would prefer not to read, I would recommend waiting for the next one. :)

**Faith**  
  
The first time Isildur was old enough to understand his grandfather's telling of Nimloth the White Tree, he thought to understand how his forefather Elros felt when Maglor Fëanorian sang of the wonder of the Two Trees. It was a wonder that was almost spiritual in shape; it was a heartfelt bond with the light that both sheltered his people and symbolized their devotion to the powers in the West. Nimloth was ever a symbol of peace and prosperity, and now, as the skies over Númenor darkened and their days lengthened with Shadow . . . the White Trees' days were numbered, and all in Amandil's household sat in shock upon receiving the news. All around him were faces unable – or, unwilling – to accept such news as the truth.  
  
Amandil had been weary at the end of his speaking, hunched over and still in his seat by the fire. Isildur sat numbly besides his brother, watching as their father put a hand on their grandfather's shoulder, offering a hollow consolation in the face of such an unthinkable horror. As remnants of the Faithful, they all bore the same burdens Amandil bore, and yet, Ar-Pharazôn's slight against the Valar was more to Amandil – it was personal, a gross insult to the once great friendship that existed between them in their youth. Over time, Amandil had ceased to whisper _but Calion would not do such a thing_ , instead he simply sat with a crease to his brow and a frown to his mouth, quiet as Ar-Pharazôn's rule turned even more savage still.  
  
More and more so, Elendil took on his father's duties while Amandil made plans of his own – whispering that he would sail West to entreat the Valar to intervene on behalf of those pure of heart who still remained on Númenor's soil. As their forefather Eärendil had before them, he would brave the ban in place to those of mortal days, and plead for the deliverance of his people. Though Elendil advised against it – entreating rather that they sail back to Middle-earth, and leave Númenor to its doom - Amandil insisted that he had to still try. Númenor had been given as a blessing to Mankind, and he would not give such a gift up to the sea – not until he had done everything in his power to save the land he so loved from the night Pharazôn pulled down around it.  
  
And yet . . . what could they do now? Nimloth was set to burn, and the King was drunk on the idea of immortality – making him vulnerable to the golden voice behind his throne, speaking all the more loudly into his ear with each passing season.  
  
“We can do nothing yet, father,” Elendil whispered, trying to sooth Amandil's guilt over their inability to save the White Tree. “For all of our sakes, do not blame yourself. Calion's mind is not the mind you once knew.”  
  
His father always spoke with a gentle weight and quiet wisdom. Normally, it was a weight and wisdom that Isildur agreed with and obeyed absolutely, as befit an eldest son. Often it was whispered that his father more closely resembled Elros than even the earliest Kings of Númenor. When the Kings from Tar-Atanamir's rule on started to vocalize their desperate yearning for immortality, the ruling family began disposing of the likenesses of Elros in the King's City. Paintings, tapestries, statues - all disappeared over the years as his descendants cursed him for dooming them to a mortal's span of days. And yet, here in Rómenna, where the land was still fair and the Faithful relatively sheltered, there was one bronze bust Isildur remembered seeing in his grandfather's library . . . He remembered being a child, asking why the artist who crafted the sculpture erred in crafting his father's mouth and line of brow - for the rest was quite accurate, and such skill should have demanded that _every_ detail was perfect. Elendil had laughed before explaining that the bust was not _he_ , but rather their first king – though he was flattered by the compliment. Now Isildur held that likeness only in his memory - for even that statue had been smashed with Sauron's rise to power. Such a thing was too dangerous to keep, lest they give Pharazôn any reason to think them anything but faithful to his crown and reign.  
   
And Isildur was tired of whispering in the shadows. He was tired of dreading, of wearing black during the day and bearing the Eye embroidered upon his chest in the light; while, at night, he would bow to the West and whisper his prayers as he had been taught to long ago. He was tired of secrets and shadows, and, most of all, he was tired of seeing hope die in the eyes of the people his grandfather led. Always it was a little at a time, and yet, it was all the more so with each passing day . . .  
   
With these thoughts in mind, he did not say a word after leaving the house that night. He simply saddled his horse, and rode hard for the King's City of Armenelos, a plan – foolish and desperate – forming within the depths of his mind.  
   
He rode fast and ceaselessly across the King's Road, only pausing to sleep for an hour or so that first night and exchange his horse with a fresh mount to carry him the rest of the way. He arrived early the next day, just in time to see the festivities for the burning of the Tree pick up full steam, the people of Armenelos out and rejoicing for the sacrifices that would baptize the new Great Temple to Melkor in a holy fire.  
   
The streets were full to bursting, and banners with the Eye of Sauron waved from every roof and window. Darting like fish through coral where children in black with red streamers in their hands, laughing at what was past their ability to understand. _Abâr Mulkhêr! Abâr Mulkhêr!_ the crowd undulated as something living, cheering with high voices, shaped to worship. _Praise Melkor, Lord of Arda and Deliverer of our Souls_ , the crowd cried, and Isildur felt his ears burn, sickened by what he heard. It was not yet noon, and yet, already the wine flowed and men stumbled drunk in their strides. Women of the night peddled their services in the full light of day, and Isildur pushed one woman with a dark veil of red silk away from him, the golden coins decorating her skirt dancing musically with her every step.  
   
Performers twirled to the sound of the harp, flute, and drum, while jesters drew laughter from the masses by dressing up as each of the Valar and comically falling over each other to please the crowd. Isildur looked to where a jester in blue, with white face paint and Manwë's mark upon his brow, tripped and 'bowed' to another wearing the black and flames of a Priest of Melkor. He felt his heart twist in his chest as the crowd laughed, some even going as far to dump their goblets of wine on the prone clown as they passed by.  
    
Isildur waited for night to fall before donning the 'borrowed' costume of one of the King's Guard and making his way through the palace walls. When he and Anárion were young, they had spent much time in Armenelos with their father and grandfather, and they had learned well the secret passages threading through the palace walls. He now walked those same hidden ways with baited breath, waiting when he heard noises, and creeping on when all was silence around him. Most of the palace's residents were celebrating in the streets beyond, and his way was mostly clear as he came out of the passage behind a tapestry. He was in an empty corridor, one which lead to the courtyard surrounding Nimloth herself.  
   
When Elros had first overseen the building of Armenelos, those thousands of years ago, the palace was wholly designed around the White Tree. Beyond him, the open courtyard was surrounded by tall, elegant pillars of white and pink marble, threaded through with veins of gold. There were guards ringing the Tree, posted to detour any of the Faithful who thought to be foolish with their heroics – quite like himself, Isildur thought wryly. The days were late in autumn, and the winter was nigh upon them. It had rained earlier in the day, and beads of ice crystallized on Nimloth's nearly barren branches. Even in her waning days, after years of neglect and abuse, she still stood with her boughs held high and proud – as regal as a queen with her grace and steadfast endurance. She all but glowed in the light of the crescent moon above – for Ithil was kindred to her, the Moon having been born of the great Tree Telperion the same as she. Nimloth took strength from the moonlight, Isildur could not help but think. He prayed then, hoping to make her strength his own.  
   
He looked, and was nearly disheartened to see nothing growing upon her naked boughs, until he saw - _there_ . . . It was small and withering, but there was a fruit waiting to be plucked on her lowest branches.  
   
Isildur felt relief fill him, nearly tangible in shape. Hope still lived then.  
   
And so, Isildur took in a breath, and stepped out into the moonlight -  
   
\- only to be stopped by a voice at his back.  
   
“Guard.”   
  
There was not a soul in Armenelos who did not know that voice, Isildur thought, instantly going still as cold dread filled his every limb. He could feel as his heart flickered, as his breath caught. Yet, he forced himself to stillness as he turned to meet the Zigûr's eyes. The guard's helm he wore was thick, and the night was shadowed. He would not be known, so long as he kept his face hidden.  
   
Yet, was the Sorcerer not said to read both hearts and minds? Isildur knew the whispers, but he did not know what was truth and what was fabrication by the masses. Hating his not knowing, he bowed before Sauron's watching gaze, dropping to his knees and making a fist of his hand and touching it to the red Eye embroidered over his heart.  
   
“My lord,” he gave in a low voice. It took everything within him to keep his tone from trembling. He looked, and saw only the polished black boots before him. When the Maia stepped towards him, he did not make a sound upon the stone, moving more like a spirit than a man of flesh and bone.  
   
Isildur had been little more than a youth when Sauron was first brought to Númenor in chains. Even still, he - like every other in Númenor - had marveled when instead of the monster the legends spoke of, they were presented with a fair and impossibly beautiful creature. The great scourge of Middle-earth _surrender_ _ed_ to Ar-Pharazôn's might before one sword could be drawn, and freely submitted himself to capture - wise and wry words falling from his mouth rather than oaths and hateful barbs. Even now, after years had passed, Isildur was still not completely used to the tall and elegant man – with a face more beautiful than any Elf and eyes composed entirely of golden flame. More dangerous than his unearthly beauty was the aura of charm and . . . _enticement_ that he seemed to wear like a second skin. Isildur always felt drowsy around the Maia, his thoughts muddled and his spirit flickering - as if unsure of whose control he was truly under.  
   
That was a feeling he could not afford now, not when so much was at stake. So, he steeled himself against the other man's probe, and held himself strong underneath his curious stare.  
   
“The rotations were done a quarter hour ago,” Sauron said, his eyes narrowing as he looked him up and down. Underneath his closed fist, Isildur could feel his heart thunder. “You are late.”  
   
“My apologies, Zigûr,” Isildur inclined his head even deeper. “I was caught up in the festivities, and lost track of the time – a tribute to the splendor and glory you have bestowed upon us, no doubt?”  
   
His temples throbbed as if there was a vice settling about his mind. The aura emanating from the Maia seemed to flicker then, to pulsate. Words lingered on the tip of Isildur's tongue – the truth, his every closely kept secret – and yet, with a mental shove he swallowed them away. He kept them his own.  
   
And finally, Sauron took a step back. His eyes narrowed in displeasure, and Isildur felt as if he had just narrowly escaped a blade at his neck.  
   
“It is a night of revelry,” Sauron finally allowed, the golden melody of his voice nonetheless carrying his ire. “But that does not excuse such tardiness. Do not let it happen again.”  
   
Isildur felt a last wave of discordance brush against his skin – promising of what future errors would bring, and foreshadowing what was to come once his 'superior officer' was told of his folly. Yet, by then, Isildur would already be long gone.  
   
He bowed even lower still, nearly pressing his forehead to the cold ground before a shadow passed over him and then fell away. Finally, Isildur felt as if he could breathe.  
   
He waited until the Maia's silent footsteps left down the hall before looking up to watch as Sauron turned the corner. When Isildur finally stood, his legs were weak. He had to wait a moment before he trusted himself to walk.  
   
Waiting another minute, he then reached into his doublet to take out the powder, turning to step out into the courtyard beyond. His heart hammered in his chest, while above him Nimloth's branches seemed to glitter – welcoming him beneath her silver eaves. He strode across the grass, approaching that first unsuspecting guard with purpose in his stride. He took in a breath, and prayed.  
   
_Our mother Varda, dear lady of light_ , he entreated the Valar as he had been taught, so long ago . . . _Manwë, lord of the heavens . . . Aulë, strong in might . . . Yavanna, bountiful in gifts . . ._ _Ulmo, ever watchful . . ._ _Námo,_ _just_ _in judgment . . ._ _Vair_ _ë_ _, spinning our fates . . ._ _Irmo, master of dreams . . ._ _gentle Est_ _ë_ _, mother of healing . . . dancing_ _Nessa_ _,_ _lighting our joy_ _. . . innocent V_ _á_ _na, keeper of youth_ _. . . Tulkas, unmatched in arms . . ._ _Oromë_ _, father of the hunt . . ._ _merciful_ _Ni_ _e_ _nna, weeping_ _for our souls_ _. . ._  
   
He prayed, and held his faith close as he struck.  
   
   
   
.  
  
.  
   
Sauron turned from the quivering boy and continued onwards down the hall. Through the pillars surrounding the courtyard, Nimloth cast a tired white glow, throwing long shadows to curve and stretch in the night. The dark swallowed him as a kindred as he walked, troubled by his inability to read the guard's soul.  
   
It was not too surprising, he thought next, trying to dismiss his overactive thoughts as nothing more than paranoia – understandable, given the events of the morrow. Many generations had passed for Lúthien's descendants, and her blood no longer solely remained in the line of the King. There were those scant few in Númenor whose hearts he could not read; whose thoughts he could not deign due to the blessings in their blood – and that boy was simply one of those few. In life, Lúthien had been troublesome enough, and now she continued to plague him even in death.  
   
His thoughts darkened. Around him the shadows lengthened, answering his turbulence of spirit. The flames leapt and danced from the torches on the wall, betraying his unease more so than any expression upon his face. He would be lying to himself if he said that his more . . . _tactful_ way of dealing with Númenor was not only a strategic move on his path to complete dominion over the lands, but also a way to thrust a blade into the memory of Lúthien herself. All of those centuries ago, it had seemed simple to defeat the desperate girl on the isle of Tol Sirion. What would a half-elf, her wolf, and a mortal man do against the _Lieutenant_ _of Angband_? The very _idea_ of defeat had seemed laughable . . . that was, until he returned to his Master in failure, and from his prostrate position before the throne, stared up at the absence of a Silmaril upon Melkor's brow.  
   
Melkor had held him personally responsible for _dear_ Melian's half-breed whelp making a fool of him. Sauron had held his tongue through his Master's rage, knowing that pointing out that at least _he_ had been defeated in battle – a battle he was _prophesied_ to lose, at that - while his Master had been sung to sleep by the song of a somewhat pretty maid was not the way to earn his lord's good graces once more. And so, he bore through Melkor's rather ingenious forms of punishment, knowing all the while that Melkor sought nothing more than to sooth his own bruised ego by inflicting the blame on another.  
   
And yet, the unforgivable part of Lúthien's crimes had been his Master's inability to forgive him as the years passed. He dropped down in status until he was on par with the lowest of Orc slaves, assigned only the most menial of tasks in the pits while Melkor smiled down cruelly from above – satisfied that he felt his 'failure' in the most acute of ways. And then, he had passed out of Melkor's mind for many seasons to come. Even when the loss of the Silmaril turned out to be inspired in further rendering the bonds between the Sindar and the Noldor . . . even when Melkor _laughed_ to see his enemies tear themselves apart from the inside out in yet another Kinslaying, and then two . . . Still Sauron toiled, and Melkor did not look his way.  
   
He redeemed himself somewhat with his machinations during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – both suggesting the use of the Easterlings as double agents, and plotting the movements of their troops that resulted in the death of Fingon the Valiant and the capture of Húrin of Dor-lómin. Melkor was power and consuming chaos, but Sauron was logic and strategy – and his Master would not have been able to accomplish what he did without him whispering at his feet. Even still, it was not until he later tore the location of Gondolin from Maeglin's broken mouth that Melkor looked on him in favor again. Yet . . . even then, it was not the same. Only at the end of War of Wrath itself, with Manwë's herald at the door and their army falling in ruins, had Melkor looked at him – truly _looked_ at him once more.  
   
His eyes terrible and fathomless, Melkor had then freed him from his duty to Angband, letting him go to live and fight another day in his name. Melkor had freed him, but never _releas_ _ed_ him, and bound he would now ever be.  
   
_Go, little Maia_ , the stone form had rumbled, not even looking at him as he sat on his throne to receive their 'guests'. His voice had been deep then, a cadence of molten rock and black heat that Sauron felt from the core of his spirit to the bones of the form he chose to wear. _Go now, Mairon, but remember . . . my servant you will be until the end of days. Never forget that._  
   
Even then he had been unable to leave. He had remained rooted to the spot as if he were a part of the mountain itself. _No, I will stay. No, I will fight . . . I will not leave you._ Ever was he the adoring servant, and if need be, he would pay even the ultimate price at his Master's side. In the end, it had taken Melkor flinging his disembodied spirit as one would chase a dog from the yard to get him to leave – just in time for Eönwë's army to breach the throne-room, and all was then chaos and loss.  
   
He felt as if he were leaving a part of his soul behind when flying from Melkor's side, watching as the great might of his spirit was subdued and chained by those who dared to call themselves _superior_. His own spirit had flickered with rage, with grief, but what could he do? He could do nothing more than wait . . . wait and carefully plan. And now, here he was, all of these centuries later with his Master's name once more arising in glory, worshiped in direct opposition to the powers in the West themselves.  
   
And . . . if he happened to avenge himself upon Lúthien's wretched descendants all the same . . . Well, that was a more personal form of satisfaction, but satisfaction still it was. At first, the idea had been ridiculous – he _bowing_ before the power of Men, no matter how mighty their nation was? _Surrendering_ to Númenor? Quaking in _fear_ at the sound of their marching feet? Even now, the thought caused him to tremble with both dark amusement and rage in the form of flesh he wore. A body was just that, and another one could be conjured at will. And yet, he vowed that he would remember each lash and blow inflicted against this hröa with the memory only a Maia possessed. Dragged through the streets of Umbar and then across the sea to the harbor city of Rómenna, where he was then paraded to the King's City in Armenelos . . . his chains had been gold, but chains they still were, and Sauron _remembered_.  
   
Each jeer of the crowd . . . each lash this King of Men so foolishly thought his right to inflict . . . each _demand_ this mortal child so arrogantly thought his right to make . . . Even when his answers became dire and direr still, the King still scurried to obey, the tables of power shifting between them without Pharazôn's conscious realization. A temple to Melkor here . . . a sect of black robed priests there . . . and then a sacrifice or three or a _hundred_ to follow . . . He gave trifle parlor tricks of 'magick' until all in Númenor called him _Sorcerer_ and bowed to him lower than they did even their King. Slowly but surely he had moved up from a dungeon cell to a room of his own in the palace to all but _governing_ that palace . . . _Do you wish for immortality, your grace? Then pass your_ _enemie_ _s through the fire . . . pass the White Tree through the fire . . ._ _pass your sons and daughters through the fires – give and give and_ give _until you have nothing but your_ _own soul to_ _feed_ _the f_ _lames._ _W_ _hen_ _the smoke_ _at last pierces the Doors of Night_ _, Melkor shall he_ _ar your cries_ _, and_ _when he_ _walk_ _s_ _free once more . . ._  
   
Well . . . Melkor always rewarded his servants most handsomely, even if not in ways his servants always understood, or appreciated.  
   
While Ar-Pharazôn scurried to obey, Sauron kept his counsel close, and _remembered_ . . . He remembered, and he swore to never forget.  
   
It turned out that Eärendil's _dear_ heir was just as debased and deviant as all would claim _he_ to be. While he understood the usefulness of . . . _physical persuasion_ , pains inflicted on others, no matter how cruel or severe, were always done with a purpose in mind. He held the same apathy for torture as he did for beating a fold of metal upon an anvil – twisting and molding it until it formed a shape either practical or beautiful in nature. He himself had learned similar lessons at Melkor's hands. His Master was always few in words with praise and many in blows for failure, and whatever 'pains' he inflicted on his captives he had experienced a hundred fold himself – for the paper thin bodies of the children of Arda could only endure so much before they broke, and broke for good. One had to be _clever_ to inflict pain on a Maia, and yet, from his Master's hands, such pains were a baptism in fire, _teaching_ him, _molding_ him . . . At Pharazôn's hands . . .  
   
. . . this king of Men all but reveled in the pains he inflicted on others. His eyes would lighten and his mouth would turn like a wolf whose mouth whetted at a doe stumbling in the wood. This king of Men was all black rot and a scorched soul that even Sauron the Abhorred looked on and saw debased to its core.  
  
Wiser still were men like Amandil and Elendil, who knew suspicion and caution when he first took the knee to Númenor outside the gates of Mordor. Though descended from a sister of the fourth King, the lords of Andúnië bore more fey wisdom (and Lúthien's enchantments in their blood) than Pharazôn's whole council combined. If Pharazôn had listened to his once-friend in the beginning, then Sauron would have taken much more drastic measures to see Númenor destroyed than the long-term deception he practiced now. The Men of the West had expected a monster, what they received instead was a beautiful being speaking honeyed words and oh so humbly surrendering to the might of Men.  
   
Surrendering . . .  
   
_Surrendering._  
   
Ha, how such a thing was laughable!  
   
If he willed it, he could have filled the minds of each in the army before him - filled them with brimstone and fire until they were all but clawing each other in their desperation to free their own burning souls from the prisons of their flesh. Such was his power with the One Ring about his finger, (and how he felt an ache of spirit as he thought about his greatest weapon; the child of his spirit that was buried safely in Barad-dûr for the time being.) Dealing with Pharazôn's arrogance in such a way had been his _right_ as Lord of Middle-earth and heir to Melkor's might. Ever was he his Master's devoted disciple, succeeding where he now could not . . . And yet, the strength of Númenor was no trifle matter. It would have to be handled with more tact than such wanton destruction.  
   
Sauron remembered the days before the Sun and Moon first rose, when his Master returned from Valinor after his first imprisonment in Mandos' Halls. Gazing at the stolen Silmarils in the looking glass, his black might of a Lord had whispered the secrets of his escape. His brother wanted words of love and devotion, pleas for forgiveness and hopes for reconciliation, and so, Melkor had spoken all that Manwë wanted to hear. Melkor, whose very _soul_ was Arda had taken a knee to one who was only Heaven, and vowed to live as a thrall, lower than the lowest in Aman, in exchange for freedom from Námo's black Halls. Melkor had humbled himself, he had debased himself, and yet, his guise of 'penitence' allowed him to fell the great House of Finwë with nothing more than whispered words and blackened tendrils of doubt sent deep within dreams.  
  
_Love_ , Melkor had scoffed. Both sons of Finwë had feared the other for their place in their father's heart, and their love for each other had suffered as a result. That fear had stayed as an unspoken whisper before Melkor's fine work; a secret that all tried to bury. And yet, after Melkor . . .  
   
Well, Valinor knew not of the Light for so long, and never again like it did in the days of the Trees'. Now Finwë's house was broken and scattered, and the least of his great might now survived as these Men thanks to the thoughtless choice of Eärendil's son. Elros callously threw away his length of days, failing to foresee the lengths his descendants would go through to reclaim what was 'rightfully' theirs . . . If Sauron moved to further that opinion, if he whispered into ears and ghosted through dreams until the secret wish of the Númenoreans turned into a tempest of righteous indignation and arrogant conviction, well . . .  
   
Sauron had learned well from his Master. Soon, he too would surge forth to take even the light away from ever darkening Númenor. He would not stop until his foes were nothing but a lost people beneath the waves, while he . . .  
   
. . . he would remain. He would remain, and he would endure to live and fight again. This was the truth than allowed his knee to bend, that allowed his head to bow. This was the certainty that let him count the moments until this Man would _know_ , and see that there was only one power left in this world - and that power rested not in Ar-Pharazôn's golden hands.  
   
Sauron looked up at Nimloth's white boughs, quaking in the starlight as if she knew her end was near. _Soon_ , he shaped his thoughts as a prayer as he turned away, as a holy offering of words. He did not know if they reached his Master beyond the Doors of Night, and yet . . .  
   
_Soon_ , he prayed, and felt his faith form as a promise.  
   
   
   
.  
  
.  
   
The night air was cold with more than the onset of winter. The clouds were few and thin above, draped in gossamer veils around the light of the sickle moon. Crystals of ice formed on the railing of her balcony from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day, lingering long after the stormclouds themselves fled.  
   
Her lady had softly suggested closing the doors and coming in to sit by the hearth, where she would not take ill to a gust of the cold. But she was a daughter of Númenor; she did not take ill, and she was the Queen besides. If she wanted to stand in the cold and look down on Nimloth's empty, barren branches, then she would.  
   
This was what she _wanted_ ; and was one of the few wishes she could fulfill with her crown as her shackles and her royal blood the very thing that chained her to the hell of her living. So, Zimraphel sent her fluttering ladies and maid-servants away, and stood with bloodless hands clasped about her balcony rails, ignoring the cold as it bit into her skin.  
   
The hour was growing late, but she would find no respite in sleep that night. Her heart was heavy, swelling to overwhelm the cavity of her chest. After all that her father had done, after all _she_ had done in her days as Númenor's sole Ruling Queen to see the deeds of their forefather's set to right, their hard work was now brushed away as if from a gust of wind. Númenor would now do the unthinkable, the _unforgivable_ , and she could do nothing but watch. She could only _watch_ , knowing that this was wrong to its very core. This was sacrilege, this was _blasphemy_ – an evil even worse than the black Maia that her husband so foolishly thought to claim as his pet and jester. She was wise enough to see the puppet strings binding him, even when her husband so foolishly called them chains. She knew who ruled from behind her husband's gilded throne, and no matter how many times she tried to find _Calion_ within Ar-Pharazôn and beseech him to see reason, she only seemed to secure his feet even more firmly down his twisted path.  
   
Oh, she knew his arguments. She knew them as well as she knew the name he sought to force on her. Often she would listen to him preach, her face pressed to the marble floor as she bowed – _bowed -_ like a penitent _peasant_ rather than Númenor's Queen. She was the rightful heir to Elros' blood, while her husband had to change the laws going back centuries to validate the farce of their union. Even now her blood heated at the thought, turning thick and angry within her as she thought about the indignity heaped upon her shoulders as Pharazôn smiled to see her bowing so . . . She remembered how his _Zigûr_ inclined his head from behind the throne and smiled to match - as if she were a dog to be trained, rather than a queen and wife to hold in respect for her counsel as an equal in wisdom.  
   
“When the Elves first came upon us, we were a small people, little above the beasts of the field with our language and traditions. Now we are mighty, so mighty that even Gil-Galad the High-king of the Elves depended on our forefathers to fight their wars when the Zigûr came forth to conquer Eriador. It was not the might of the Elves that pushed Sauron back to Mordor - nay, it was _us_. It was _o_ _ur_ might, _o_ _ur_ strength. And such was our might and strength that not even Melkor's Lieutenant dared to wage war with us. The great Sorcerer surrendered in wisdom, and threw in his lot with the side of _power_.  
   
“Now our years do not match our might, and still the Valar in the West would have us toil. They sit on their thrones and lie to us about the existence of the One, while chaining our true lord Melkor away. They watch in glee as we grow old and die after so few years of living - and they do so because they _fear_ us, because they know that we are strong enough to take even _Valinor_ by force if that is what our lord Melkor demands of us. Once we break free from the chain of the Valar, such a reward will then be ours. As Númenor was given to us for our devotion to the One; immortality shall be given to us by one who is even greater than the lie of Eru. We shall be _deathless_ ; and our reign – yours and mine, my queen - shall be endless.”  
   
He would always have to stop at that point of his tirade, clenching his fists and taking in deep breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat. He would blink, and always was her husband something more in those moments . . . something _other_ while the Sorcerer's eyes glittered as flames behind him.  
   
The throne-room was all gold and sapphire, denoting the ocean and its might underneath the gold of the sun. The light from the torches chased mad shapes across Pharazôn's brow, catching in his nut brown hair and setting it aflame. It had bothered him since their childhood that he did not bear the coloring of the King's line, she would remember in satisfaction whenever she saw Elros' crown upon his brown brow. Once, she and Amandil had teased him with affection as children, back when her own hair had been thick and black down her back, not bound away in artful coils and jeweled nets. Calion would only scowl and pushed them in the waves in those days, his warm brown eyes laughing. And yet, now . . .  
   
His eyes were cold. She could not see _Calion_ within them no matter how hard she tried.  
   
“It was not our choice that did away with our days,” Pharazôn would then drop his voice to a whisper. “It was not our choice, but rather the _Indilzar_ _'s_ choice. It was not his right to do away with the days of his descendants; to chain them to these mortal forms. I seek justice with my actions, I seek that which is rightfully owed to us. And where the Powers in the West will not be moved by our plight, I will seek out my endless days with a higher Power, a greater Might.”  
   
“At what cost?” she would dare to raise her head in reply. “At what cost will you buy that which the One himself has not seen fit to give?” For while the days of Men were relatively few, they were still days to live and live to the fullest before they found beyond the circles of the world and the Gift that their true Father promised to them . . .This she had been taught from her earliest days, and she could not yet bring herself to turn away from those teachings.  
   
She remembered sitting with her father in the courtyard below, tending to the White Tree and praying that Tol Eressëa would once again become visible to them on the western horizon. Her father taught her the names of the Valar, and told her stories of the birth of her people - speaking of both their great friendship with the Elves and their deeds of bygone days. when the might of Men had been so selfless and full of valor that the Valar gave them this great land as a gift, as a blessing . . .  
   
Carefully, her father had taught her how to pray, and Nimloth had turned her crystalline boughs towards their songs of thanksgiving - fully blooming for the first time since the evil of Ar-Gimilzôr's rule.  
   
And yet . . . her father was dead now. Her father was dead, and Calion, who had been her friend in their youngest days had usurped both her hand and her throne, leaving her helpless as her father's fine work was destroyed and Númenor plunged into a blackness darker than any before her husband's reign.  
   
Now the Great Temple to Melkor stood dominating the horizon, terrible in shape and black in might. It's build was young and new, the last stone having been set but days ago. The White Tree was set to burn as the opening sacrifice with the sunrise, darkening the golden ceiling with the black of smoke for the first time. She had lost count of the souls who had been selected to pass through the fires next, and no matter how she worked to secure their release, she knew that they would never walk free again. Those whom her husband believed to be traitors to his rule would fall to the Zigûr's cruel ideas of devotion, slaughtered before Melkor's pitiless eyes in the name of eternal life. When she spoke too vehemently in defense of Nimloth, Sauron had even raised a copper brow, and suggested that perhaps something beloved – something _personal_ – should be sacrificed to Melkor to show the depths of Pharazôn's devotion, cutting her words at their roots. She understood the threat as it was made, and the worst part was that Pharazôn had not blinked in reply. He had considered. He had vowed to give even that if Melkor demanded it so. She wanted to tear the Sorcerer's smirk from her face with her bare hands then, but to do so would have only given him the reason he needed to finally see her cast aside.  
   
Beyond the Faithful whom she worked for behind the scenes, she was simply glad that she only had her own soul to protect from Sauron's Eye, and not a child as well. She had decided long ago that she would never be a mother. When her husband first forced this marriage on her, she had taken precautions so that Calion's child would never take root in her, as much as she had once wanted nothing more than a family of her own . . . a son to give her father's name to, and a daughter to teach the songs and prayers of old. And yet, now she was all too thankful that she took such measures. For the Zigûr's eyes on her were bad enough . . . if she had a child to protect from the flames, as well . . .  
   
She tasted bile in her throat at simply the thought. She could not swallow against it.  
   
And yet, she was startled from her thoughts by a movement in the courtyard below. She looked, but only saw where the guards seemed to be staring straight ahead, looking without blinking as a cloaked figure darted forth over the cool grass. He wore a guard's black uniform and gold feathered helm, with the red Eye of Sauron staring up from his chest, and yet . . . it was no guard who approached the White Tree with a careful reverence in his stride and awe to the tilt of his head. It was no guard, but rather, one of the Faithful who lifted his hand as if in apology to the doomed boughs. Nimloth seemed to brighten beneath the touch, and then, and only then could she tell the face of Elendil's son when the imposter threw his visor back so as to better look at the majesty before him – beautiful, even in the face of such a death. She could easily tell dear Amandil's face in the line of his grandson – spying out the strong features and the nearly fey build that Silmariën's descendants carried even when the king's line had all but completely lost its resemblance to Elros as time went by.  
   
And yet, now . . .  
   
_Isildur_ , she recognized, fear leaping in her chest. That foolish, _foolish_ boy. Did he not know that it was more than his own life that he risked? Did he not understand that Calion had been looking for all but an excuse to see Amandil's kin put to the sword? He would give that to him now, and all for . . .  
   
No.  
  
She turned towards the door – to what end she did not know – but was stopped when Ar-Pharazôn stepped into her chamber at that same moment, his eyes glittering with the promise of the morrow.  
   
“My lord,” her voice came out startled. She fought the urge she had to glance over her shoulder, not wanting to give away the boy in the courtyard below.  
   
“You are as restless as I, if I could startle you so,” Pharazôn said, coming closer to her. There was amusement etched into his face, and yet, there was a question too.  
   
_For_ _not the same_ _reasons_ _are we sleepless this eve_ , she thought, but did not say. “I am filled with anticipation for tomorrow,” she said, placing herself between her husband and the balcony. Her words were not wholly a lie.  
   
“It is to be a day of glory, matched by none other since this nation's founding,” Pharazôn said in a low, reverent voice. If he felt any apprehension for killing the tree his kingship was prophesied to be tied to, he gave no sign. Instead his gaze was eager, like a wolf with eyes turned towards the moon.  
   
Zimraphel came in from her balcony, shutting the doors firmly behind her. “The night air grows cold,” she said in explanation.  
   
And she was cold. Her robe for the night was the finest of silks, but it was thin. Gooseflesh broke out over the exposed skin of her forearms, and she shivered when Pharazôn lifted her hand to see proof of her body's chill. If she were any other wife, and he any other husband, it would have been a mark of affection when he folded his arms around her, sharing his body's heat. She merely closed her eyes against the embrace, and swallowed around a stone.  
   
“You shiver,” he said, his whisper ghosting against her hair.  
  
She exhaled. “Only from the cold,” still she said, her voice a whisper. Let him think her coy, she thought, for she could not hide the leaping of her pulse when there was the sound of the guard below, awakening from whatever enchantment Isildur had used on them.  
   
She felt her breath catch. Her people lived on borrowed time, she knew, for not long would the Valar – would the _One_ – allow this race of Men to so openly scorn their rule. How long would black smoke have to burn the sky before Ilúvatar remembered his children – both striking with a father's rage, and sparing those faithful with a father's love?  
   
She did not have the time to wait, though. _Isildur_ did not have the time – and so, she turned in her husband's arms. She met his eyes even as he looked to turn away, drawn by the ruckus below.  
   
Not once in her marriage had she ever kissed her husband without the affection being forced on her. Never had she accepted Pharazôn with joy, and over the years her husband had lost interest in her bed when her body proved to be barren to him – though he did not know that to be from her own doing. She threaded her arms around his neck and kissed him now, closing her eyes and forcing down her revulsion as she forced her hands to be tender, her mouth to be delicate with a wife's devotion.  
   
“To celebrate your success,” she drew away from him to whisper, her voice pitched low as her heart thundered in her chest. Her pulse leapt from fear and worry, it was true, but Pharazôn did not know that.  
   
He looked at her in such a way then. His hands - his cruel, _merciless_ hands - cupped her face in a way that was nearly tender. For, somewhere deep down inside, he did bear an affection for her. It was debased and it was _wrong,_ twisted as so much about him was, and yet . . . it was love where his bones were black rot and his veins all but yellow with venom. It was enough to save the foolish, brave boy below. And so, _Míriel_ fought with the one weapon she still had to her, and twisted her husband's affections in order to spare the lives of those who still believed as she believed.  
   
_Our mother Varda, dear lady of light_ , she prayed once more, hoping beyond hope that _this time_ they would listen, that _this time_ , her prayers would be heard . . . _Manwë, lord of the heavens . . . Aulë, strong in might . . . Yavanna, bountiful in gifts . . ._ _Ulmo, ever watchful . . ._ _Námo,_ _just_ _in judgment . . ._ _Vair_ _ë_ _, spinning our fates . . ._ _Irmo, master of dreams . . ._ _gentle Est_ _ë_ _, mother of healing . . . dancing_ _Nessa_ _,_ _lighting our joy_ _. . . innocent V_ _á_ _na, keeper of youth_ _. . . Tulkas, unmatched in arms . . ._ _Oromë_ _, father of the hunt . . ._ _merciful_ _Ni_ _e_ _nna, weeping_ _for our souls_ _. . ._ _Please, remember your servant_ _s_ _. . . shelter your children in their time of need. Please, as your humble daughter, I beg of you . . ._  
   
_. . . Please_.  
   
She peered up through the glass panes of her balcony doors, her eyes finding the heavens through Nimloth's great branches . . . but no answer was found by her. And then her husband was blocking out what light remained from the stars, smothering her until there was only _him._ In reply she held her belief close to her chest once more. She kept her faith as a truth – lining her bones and filling her lungs, swearing that she would let it define her until she had not a breath left within her to do so.  
  
   
   
   
.  
  
.  
   
His son did not open his eyes until the first days of spring.  
   
 At first, Elendil had known a fear unlike any other when he was broken from his anxious pacing by a page announcing Isildur's return. He had known from the first that something was not right – for the page's face was pale, and his eyes flickered to rest anywhere but on his own. When he had first realized that Isildur was gone, he could risk no action for fear of exposing his son. And then, when word had reached them as rumor that the guards had tried to capture a criminal who stole a fruit from the White Tree . . . while the guards had been unable to capture the culprit, they had dealt the thief wounds aplenty, and were of the opinion that it was only a matter of time before their quarry was found. Elendil had worried, sick with his apprehension until late in the evening the next day, when his son was announced as returned.  
   
His worst fears had been confirmed when he came down to the courtyard to see Isildur bloody and half-alive upon the back of his horse. His ruined guard's costume was in tatters about his body and his eyes were closed with unconsciousness. He had collapsed against his horse's neck, and only some animal's wisdom had kept him from falling during the long trek back to Rómenna.  
   
And yet, in his hand he clenched a single, withering fruit. A single _silver_ fruit, saved from destruction even as black smoke dotted the horizon – visible from the roof of the Great Temple, no matter the miles between Armenelos and the seashore.  
   
“You foolish boy,” Elendil had breathed, he being the one to pull his son from the horse. Once Isildur was on the ground, he held his son close, his heart twisting in both fear and relief – fear, relief, and such an overwhelming _pride_ that for a moment he had not been able to breathe around it. “You foolish, _brave_ boy.”  
   
Those in his household were of the Faithful, and not a one would betray Isildur's deed. Even still, for many days Elendil feared Pharazôn's men arriving with swords and chains at his doorstep. Yet, the days turned to weeks and then to months, and still none had come to take his son into custody. Isildur had disguised himself well, and no one knew who sought to give Nimloth her last chance to grow again. His son was safe. Safe, and yet . . . as the winter came and lingered, Elendil feared that Pharazôn would eventually come to claim a corpse for his torments – for Isildur had been unblinking since the day of his return. No matter what poultice or charm they tried, the healers had been unable to move him to awaken once more.  
   
Isildur still lived, the healers said. Only, he lived lost within his own mind. He could awaken in the next minute, or he could awaken years down the line – there was no way to tell in cases like these. And yet, Elendil clasped his belief close to his chest, and held on to his faith that his son would open his eyes once again. His faith was all he had left to him.  
   
He, Anárion, and Isildur's childhood sweetheart Ûrien, took turns staying with him during the day. The healers said that while he could not reply, he could hear them in his slumber, and their words would do more than they knew in stimulating his brain. Elendil would often sit and speak about everything and nothing, giving his words until his voice was raw. Most nights, he started out reading whatever scroll demanded his attention that day, and ended up telling his son how proud his mother would be if she was still there with them. Anárion found him like this most nights, and yet, as much as his son pushed for him to take rest for himself, he knew that his youngest child slept by Isildur's side more often than not. Anárion was often to be found on his brother's right, while Ûrien slept at his left, they both unwilling to let him awaken to an empty room.  
   
When the winter finally broke and the spring rains softened the ground enough for planting, Elendil himself took the seeds from Nimloth's fruit, and planted them out of sight from all. He then bowed over the hidden seed and prayed – prayed as he had not since he was a small boy and faith was easy in its simplicity and certainty. He prayed for hours, keeping to his devotion until his eyes had no tears to give and his voice was raw. He stayed until he was emotionally spent, and then he left Nimloth's memory to grow again in peace.  
   
. . . it was not until that first green shoot pierced the soil that Isildur awakened, opening his eyes with the first unfurling of the seed, and Elendil knew then with a certainty that the prophesy of old was true. Nimloth lived and breathed with Elros' line, and she had bonded herself to his son for the bravery of his deeds.  
   
The house came alive with sounds of rejoicing that day. There were songs ringing through the halls, while laughter was found around every corner as long, mourning faces remembered that their mouths could smile, that their throats could sing. Elendil welcomed the good cheer with open arms, feeling like the sprouted seedling himself for his son once more alive and well. He could not keep his joy from his eyes, and his mouth all but ached from the strain of holding a smile for so long.  
   
It was late into the night now, and Anárion had left them both to see the household put to order nearly an hour ago. Elendil still sat at his son's bedside, unable to turn away. On Isildur's opposite side, Ûrien had fallen asleep almost a quarter hour ago. She was a slender woman with seemingly delicate features, though the last few months had proven a spine of steel to exist where many would only see a flower, ready to wilt in a stiff breeze, before. Ûrien had been a favored playmate of Isildur as a child, and she had grown to remain a close companion as they turned older still. Elendil wished to someday call her _daughter_ , and the events of the past few months could only hasten that goal towards fruition, he hoped.  
   
With her white skin and pale blonde hair, the black she wore nearly washed her out. The red lining, and the embroidered eye upon her chest . . . the eye seemed to be staring at him, Elendil could not help but think. It stayed unmoving as Ûrien finally gave into exhaustion and fell asleep with her head leaning on Isildur's bedside. Her breathing was deep and even – at peace for the first in far too long.  
   
Elendil watched as Isildur stared at the girl, his eyes far away as he reached out a hesitant hand to sooth her hair away from her brow. The smallest of tasks wearied him after so long a bedrest, and even reaching over to touch her left him drained after a moment. Elendil waited for him to settle in against the pillows, biting his tongue to keep from asking if his son needed help adjusting himself, or if he wanted a glass of water. Isildur would ask him when he needed aid, and he did not want to coddle him too much before then.  
   
Instead, he too looked at Ûrien, allowing a fond smile to touch his mouth – for both of his children. “She has scarce left your side these long months,” Elendil said fondly, giving in to the urge to reach out and touch his son's hand. “She will make a fine wife, when you get to asking her.”  
   
Isildur looked from Ûrien to him, and then looked down at his sheets again. His face was troubled. “I would not bring a wife into such a land as this . . . and I most certainly would not condemn a child to live in such darkened days,” he swallowed, as if the thought was a malediction, rather than a blessing. “Our family is marked in Ar-Pharazôn's eyes, and to bring her into that . . .”  
   
“Time is against those of us with mortal years,” Elendil commented. “In the end, you may not have time to wait against the length of your days.  
   
Isildur raised a dark brow. “You now speak as the Âru does.”  
   
“Perhaps,” Elendil acknowledged wryly, not allowing mentions of Pharazôn to darken his spirits – not this eve. “And yet, I simply encourage you to live in the years you have. Ûrien is daughter to Faithful parents, and she too holds her faith still dear. She is marked with or without you are her husband, my son.”  
   
Isildur let out a deep breath. In her sleep, Ûrien turned towards him, as if unconsciously seeking his warmth. Elendil watched the adoration that filled his son's gaze – even without his will – and knew that he would have a marriage to plan in the time to come, no matter Isildur's current reservations.  
   
He let out a deep breath, pleased.  
   
After a long moment, Isildur turned back to him. “Nimloth?” he questioned then, changing the subject. “She lives no more, does she not?”  
   
“She was the kindling that started the fires in the Great Temple,” Elendil answered, his jaw tight as he forced the words out. “Yes.”  
   
Isildur closed his eyes, long and slow. “Then . . .” he hesitated. He could not form his words. “The fruit . . .”  
   
“Was planted successfully,” Elendil answered gently. “And, most curiously, you only opened your eyes this morning with the seed's first sprouting.” He leaned back as Isildur processed his revelation, confusion darkening his eyes for a moment. “It was foretold, long ago, that the Kings of Elros' line would find their fates intertwined with that of the White Tree. Perhaps, there was more truth to that then first was known.”  
   
“I am no King,” Isildur pointed out wryly. “Our family cannot even claim lordship over Andúnië any longer, and even if we could, I would still have at least another century to come into that title, given grandfather's constitution.”  
   
“And yet, you are of Elros' blood, are you not?” Elendil was not so sure. Ever did Pharazôn move to push Númenor down a path that it would not survive. If, during the days after . . . but no. Such thoughts were formed only through the haze of possibility, and Elendil would give them no further thought. “All I know is that Nimloth . . . she grows with you, she _lives_ with you . . . Someday, you shall plant her again in fair soil, and your children and your children's children will know peace and light beneath her boughs.”  
   
“How very elvish of you,” Isildur said. “Do you have the Sight, all of these years, only to remain silent about it?”  
   
“It is nothing like that,” Elendil said, his eyes sparking at his son's teasing. “I only give voice to a hope, one that I believe in dearly.”  
   
“Faith,” Isildur said in a low voice, solemnly nodding in reply. “Yes, I do understand that.”  
  
And he did. He believed more than them all, perhaps, for none other had dared to stretch their hand towards Nimloth as his son had. Elendil felt pride fill him, even as the days remained dark on the horizon ahead. Isildur was silent now, closing his eyes in contentment – for already the span of the day had wearied him, and the path to healing would be long in the weeks to come.  
   
As his son nodded off the sleep, Elendil bowed his own head, and yet, before he could slip into the familiar routine of his prayers, he paused. He hesitated.  
   
_Blessed Father_ , he instead addressed the One in his heart, needing to believe that somewhere they were heard – that somewhere the one who had created all was indeed listening. _Please, watch over my son as you have so long watched over me. Remember your Faithful in their time of need, and deliver us from the Shadow. As your humble servant, I beg of you . . ._  
   
He had no signs to say whether or not he was heard. The shadows were still on the wall, and the candles were quiet in their holders. Outside, the wind was lazy against the shutters. And yet, it did not matter. Elendil looked up, and let himself hold faith.  
   
As the last seeds of Nimloth turned in the gardens beyond, Isildur did too, and Elendil watched them both stretch their roots to grow. As he threaded through the main street, almost unable to move for the masses flooding the corridor, he looked and saw where the King's guard pulled bound men through the crowds. Some shivered and stared ahead with glassy eyes, unseeing as they were lead to their doom; while others stood with their heads held tall, all but challenging the crowd and its cruelty with the defiance in their gaze. Each man and woman was either of the Faithful, or accused of being so as a result of their angering the wrong person with the King's ear, and now they were drawn as prisoners of war through the streets towards the great dome in the distance – where they too would feed the flames that would devour Nimloth upon the morrow. Whatever doubt he carried before was replaced by resolve as he followed the poor wretches with his eyes.  
  
_That will be you if you are not careful_ , a voice that sounded like Anárion – ever the sensible one between them – rang in his ear, and he set his jaw, determination filling him.  
  
Keeping his hood wrapped tightly around his face, he traveled deeper into the city, to where the herb-mistresses and seers made their livings off the ever more superstitions masses, peddling both the truly arcane and that which was smoke and glitter to those who passed their way. There was a crone that he knew to be discreet, and he brought his potion from her – adding gold enough to ensure her silence, before slipping back into the crowded streets again to wait for the fall of night.  
  
He could not bribe the King's guards, not here – not with such death and barbaric appreciation for bloodsport all but saturating the air around him. The city nearly vibrated with blood-lust and bestial anticipation for the 'sacrifices' that would start with the morning hour, and Isildur felt his stomach turn at the thought. Any bribe he would attempt would simply be pocketed, and his secret told anyway – he given like a bone to the dogs now reigning at the head of this once fair land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ûrien** : Isildur's wife was never named, so I gave her a name meaning 'sun-maid' in Adûnaic, as a foil to Isildur's name, which means 'devoted to the moon.' (Perhaps foreshadowing his bond with Nimloth, who was born of the Moon-tree, Telperion? It is something to think on - and it makes it all the more heartbreaking when you think about where he ends up later in life. :( )  
>  **Zigûr** : Sauron's title, meaning 'Sorcerer' in Adûnaic.  
>  **Âru** : 'King' in Adûnaic.  
>  **Indilzar** : Another name for Elros in Adûnaic that Tolkien later discarded. I am using it as a title here.


	45. "my spirit born"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melian & Lúthien || Prompt: _Hush_ , Free-write

**Hush**  
  
The truth of the matter was that she knew absolutely nothing about being a mother.  
  
She had given her voice alongside a thousand others to create the universe itself. She gave music to the throats of birds, she shaped the beauty and mystery of their song, and yet, she had never seen a baby cry. She had never held another being and knew that the tiny form in her arms depended solely on her. _Her_. Completely.  
  
Melian was Maia; she created, she did not birth. But this was her daughter, born of her flesh as much as her spirit, and so, she vowed to learn this as she learned how to do everything else in the form she wore. She was determined, and she would learn well.  
  
She would not let her ladies and attendants take care of Lúthien in her stead. This was her daughter, a tiny gift of life that she had given up her very divinity for. As a result, Melian learned early on to tie back her hair (Lúthien's fingers were endlessly searching), and refrain from wearing jewelry around her neck and though her ears (and endlessly curious, at that). Melian held her daughter when she cried; she dressed and changed and fed Lúthien herself, for she was her daughter's _mother_ and no other would be so in her place.  
  
Melian had looked about, helpless, the first time Lúthien's swaddling clothes needed to be changed. She had still been weary then – her prison of flesh weak and tender from the unnatural experience of carrying her child to life within her womb – and it had been her husband who came to her aid. Thingol had shooed her hands away and forced her to sit while he cleaned and changed their daughter with deft, easy hands, earning her raised brow in return as she asked a question with her eyes rather than her voice.  
  
“Elmo's oldest son was born before you drew me to Nan Elmoth,” he explained, a smile of his own pulling at his mouth. “I do remember a thing or two.” And what he did not know, they learned together.  
   
Lúthien was a quiet babe, for the most part. She did not cry overly much, and she was quick with smiles and giggles whenever there were arms to hold her. However, there were nights when she would cry for her parents – more often than not, Melian could not help but think. As a spirit, she had needed not of sleep, but this tangible body she now wore needed to pass at least a few hours each night in rest. Lúthien, however, had other plans.  
  
Melian could feel as the stars above her turned. There were only hours until the silver dawn that passed for daylight this far from the Trees, and already her daughter was awake and hiccuping out sobs into the dark. At her side, Thingol stirred, ready to rise in her place, but she placed her hand to his brow and deepened his sleep. He had to speak with his council first thing in the morning, and such meetings were always better confronted when fully rested. For all of his hard lines of temper her husband was surprisingly soft underneath – indeed, that was what had drawn her for the first – and he loved nothing better than their daughter. He was enchanted by the baby they had created together, and he would rise every time Lúthien cried had she not stopped him. While the lives of the Elves were immortal, only a fraction of those lives were spent raising a child who was truly dependent on them. As a result, those years were cherished times in their memories – blessings, even.  
  
She hummed as she came to her daughter's crib, reaching down to take Lúthien into her arms. Her daughter recognized her and immediately burrowed into the warmth of her body, her large eyes lidded with her exhaustion as she hiccuped out her frustration into her mother's chest. Subtly, Melian touched her daughter's mind, feeling the remnant of shadow about her thoughts – a bad dream, she concluded.  
  
“Hush,” she cooed, stroking her baby's head as she went to sit in the rocker carved with vines and forest creatures by the crib-side – a gift from Galadhon's fair hand, he having learned how to craft such a thing for his wife's comfort with their own children, just those short decades ago. “Hush little one, all that plagues you is now gone.”  
  
Lúthien squeezed her eyes shut, completely miserable as she made tiny fists over the thin material of her mother's robe. Still she gave little cries, and fat tears leaked down from her eyes. Melian tucked her daughter in closer to her body, the sound of her tears drawing a matching pang from her own chest.  
  
She closed her eyes and started to hum underneath her breath – a song that once she had taught the nightingales to sing. Beyond them, the night was dark and the stars were bright as they wheeled through their set paths in the sky. Even in this mortal form she could feel their dance brush against her skin. She breathed, and breathed in time with the earth around her.  
  
Melian thought then of starlight, and the colour that waited to be shown to the world when the night would someday break to the light. As she did so, she lifted the hand that was not holding her daughter and called into being small orbs of iridescent light. Blue, purple, and green spheres appeared, dancing on wispy waves of golden brilliance – a dance of light and color that could not be found so far beyond the light of the Trees. Not yet, at least. She twirled her fingers, and the orbs danced and twirled as the stars themselves leapt and spun. The notes of her lullaby lilted to match their unearthly splendor, remembering Varda's ethereal grace as she set the wheels of the cosmos in motion. She shared that memory with her daughter now, and felt her tears dry in reply.  
  
Lúthien blinked, entranced at the orbs of light. Melian could feel her daughter's soul absorb the song she sung, learning even without her consciously teaching her the symphony of the cosmos. Melian hummed, and felt as an answering note reverberated in her daughter's soul, she instinctively trying to mirror her mother's song.  
  
More than that, her tears ceased and wonder instead appeared on the delicate planes of her face. Melian watched as her expression soothed and then calmed. A moment later, Lúthien was asleep in her arms, and still Melian continued to sing.  
  
Her song had drawn more than just her daughter's slumber. She looked up, drawn by a presence pulling on her senses – like summer skies and lightning – and saw her husband at the entrance to the nursery. He had sloppily shrugged on a tunic, and his steel grey hair was gathered in a simple queue at the base of his neck. Even so, his sleep-bleary eyes were filled with warmth as he looked on both his wife and daughter.   
  
“I had meant for you to sleep,” she chided softly, still rocking Lúthien in her arms. She subtly probed, and knew that her child would now sleep without dark dreams.  
  
Thingol raised a brow. “I have grown immune to your enchantments, wife,” he said, his eyes glittering as he came to kneel at her side, looking tenderly down at Lúthien.  
  
“Not all of them, I hope?” This time, it was her turn to raise a brow. With the ease of long years, she could feel his spirit lap against her own, like the sea against the shore, easy with contentment and simple joy.  
  
“Never that,” Thingol assured. He reached out to touch the black curls atop Lúthien's head, his hand gentle. Even in slumber she turned towards her father's warmth, instinctively drawn to him. He stared at her, captivated. Around him, the globes of light started to disappear, leaving wisps of gold in their wake before that too was swallowed by the night. “Already you bring her magic,” he said softly. “She can feel it, and she knows peace for her mother's light.”  
  
“Nay,” Melian said tenderly, unable to look away from the child she held. “It is she who has brought magic to me.”

 


	46. "between sky and sea"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elwing/Eärendil || Prompt: _Flight_ , Free-write

**Flight**  
  
No matter how hard she tried, there where times when she found it hard to remember her mother.  
  
Elwing could remember small things: the feel of her hair, the warmth of her embrace. But the exact shape of her smile, the precise timber of her voice? These memories were distorted, and no matter how she concentrated, she could not grant them clarity. Better did she remember the glow of the Silmaril underlighting Nimloth's face as she was pushed towards Celeborn and told to _run;_ to run and not look back. No matter what she heard, no matter what she saw.  
  
She . . . she thought that she had stopped running upon reaching Sirion. She thought that she had come to a halt as she learned to lead her people, as she married her husband, as she became a mother herself . . . Yet, it turned out that she was still running, even still. She had never stopped.  
  
The deck of the _Vingilot_ swayed underneath her feet. Although the sea no longer made her nauseous, she was by no means comfortable on the broad and empty expanses between the horizons. Ulmo called to her husband, not to her, and Elwing only cared for the waves when she could look to the land and see the comforting shade of the forest just beyond. Now, she could not see the home she had fled, and her heart _hurt_ for it.  
  
_If you cannot cross the sea by boat, what would you do instead?_ She remembered Eärendil laughing at her as the child he had once been. The girl she once was had smiled in reply, holding her arms out to the strong wind blowing in over the waves. _I would rather fly_ , she said, and Eärendil was not the only one to remember her words from that day.  
  
. . . she had flown, she remembered numbly. She had flown, but she could not remember the wonder of soaring so close to the sun or beating her wings against the thermals in the air. She could only remember her mother pushing her away, and the days months years (even now) after, when she would stare at the Silmaril and wonder: _W_ _hy was this_ _gem_ _more important than you surviving to take care of me? Why was this worth my brothers' lives?_ _Why did Father deem this_ bauble _worth your life, worth his own life?_ _Why did you not love me enough_ _to stay with me_ _. . ._  
  
There were times when it seemed that the Silmaril itself laughed at her thoughts, as if it were triumphant in her pain. The flame-warm voice she could hear speaking during the darkest part of night would turn its head and whisper such promises . . . such lies . . . Where first she could not stand to even _look_ at the Silmaril, she was soon unable to keep it hidden away. Before Sirion fell, it hardly left its place about her throat, where she could constantly sustain herself on the light it offered. It had pleaded when the sons of Fëanor marched against the Havens. It had _pleaded_ , and she . . .  
  
She could not let it go. She was as a lampshade in those days, existing only to let the light of the Silmaril shine through. She would not surrender that which was dearest to her, that which was _precious_ in her eyes.  
  
. . . precious.  
  
Elwing swallowed and tasted something sour in the back of her throat. She looked down at the Silmaril in her hands and noticed that it no longer laughed. It was quiet. There was an accusation in its breathtaking radiance. She closed her eyes, but even that could not shade her from its glow, from its _burn_.  
  
There was a soft knock, and she looked up to see Eärendil standing at the door to his cabin. She had just awakened and dressed herself in a loose sailor's garb after sleeping most of the day away, exhausted from her desperate flight over the waters. She did not remember Eärendil catching her the day before, let alone leaving her to her rest. She blinked, and it took her a moment to recognize her husband. She had not seen him in over a year, and the differences were slight, but acute. The tan darkening his skin was deeper than she remembered, and his golden hair was nearly white atop his head, bleached by the constant sunlight mirrored from the waves. While his face was still boyish and ever-young, there was a curious crinkling of wrinkles about the corners of his eyes, such as the sons of Men developed with their years. She knew that she was staring, but she could not look away.  
  
“I felt you awaken,” Eärendil said. His voice was slow from his mouth, awkward almost, as if he did not know what to say. She could see questions aplenty in his eyes – his gaze never did hide anything, useless creature of the court he was - but he waited for her to speak. “Are you well?” he finally asked, at a loss for what else to say.  
  
She did not answer. She simply looked down at the Silmaril in her hands.  
  
“Elwing?” Eärendil asked gently. “What happened?”  
  
She struggled not to flinch at the question. Her thoughts were slippery, flashing between her mother's flame-lit face and Sirion as it was engulfed by flames. She remembered receiving Maedhros' first letter and responding, denying his claim to the Silmaril as price of her family's blood, blood that _he_ had spilled, souls _he_ had murdered. She declared that she would make no decision while Eärendil was still at sea, especially while her council was divided around her. Galadriel foresaw only more bloodshed, for Sirion was a city of fisherman and refugees - their fighting men were few, and help from Gil-galad on the Isle of Balar would come too late depending on how soon Maedhros was set to march. Oropher was quick to disagree, accusing Galadriel of sympathizing with her father's kin and demanding that they stand and fight the Kinslayers before letting them take what Doriath had fallen for. It was, she reflected without amusement, one of the few times Oropher had agreed with her on anything.  
  
Elwing exhaled, remembering her mother's hands at her shoulder - turning her away, pushing her - and she remembered pushing her sons into Eliedis' arms and telling them to _hide,_ to _run_. Maedhros' men marched on the city the same morning she received his reply to her letter - giving them no time to debate, just a _moment_ to choose between giving the thieves and murderers what they wanted and their own lives. In her hands, the Silmaril had cried and yearned: _my son, my son, my son_ , while Elwing could only remember her mother's face as she turned . . . her father's hand on her shoulder as he told her he loved her . . . her brothers' laughing as she tickled their sides . . . she even remembered Lúthien herself, pushing the Silmaril away in disgust after Beren laid the gem before her and told her that her father was avenged. Elwing had been a mere child, but even then she was entranced by the jewel. She had not understood how her grandmother could so easily push away something so _beautiful_.  
  
_No_ , she had thought fiercely – possessively. The Silmaril was stained in the blood of her family, and Maedhros Kinslayer could have it not. It was dear to her – _precious_ \- and she would not let the countless deaths of her family and kin be for nothing.  
  
Elwing had known such fey determination then . . . even while foreseeing the hopelessness of their battle and calmly deciding her own end. _To the sea with_ _us both_ , she had thought fiercely, while the Silmaril wailed in her ear, not letting her be with its desire to return to the blood of its maker.  
  
_Would that I throw it into the sea and be rid of it_ , she had told Eärendil as a girl, sharing with him the horror of the Second Kinslaying for the first time. _Better would it be in the waves, far from here_.  
  
It was the only thought consuming her as she calmly walked out onto her balcony, impervious to the sounds of the battle raging far below her. She could only hear the pounding of the waves against the cliffs, roaring their promises to her . . . calling in suplication as she climbed to stand on the railing. It was not long before the doors to her rooms were flung open, and she spied an Elf with hair the color of red flame from the corner of her eyes.  
  
“Hand us the jewel, Elwing,” Fëanor's eldest son had demanded, his tone as cold as the sword in his hand. Once, she could imagine his voice to be beautiful, his words compelling. In the light of the flames from the quays below, his face was only sharp.  
  
“Elwing, be not a fool,” the second had pleaded, understanding her intentions. His warm voice was steeped with worry, but she could not tell if it was for her or the gem she held in her hands.  
  
_“Elwing, do not let anyone take this from you,”_ Nimloth whispered in her memories. _“Run, my daughter, and do not look back.”_  
  
And she had not looked back.  
  
_I will fly_ , she had thought without humor as she let herself fall, embracing the wind in her hair and the roaring in her ears as it passed her by, and afterward, she remembered little but for the embrace of the ocean – the tug of the tide upon her heart and the rolling weight of the current against her body - before she was flung into the sky again. And she flew.  
  
Now she sat before her husband – stunned to be alive, stunned to be _here -_ while he awaited the answer he feared most to hear.  
  
“I felt your distress,” Eärendil said when she could not speak. “We turned back towards Sirion for it.”  
  
“There is nothing to turn back to,” she finally said. Her voice was hollow, with not even the light of the Silmaril filling her as she had long depended on it. “Sirion lies in ruin.”  
  
Eärendil took a step back, stunned. His hand found the post of the door for support. “But . . .” he stammered, ever a sort of boyish naivety clinging to him, “There were Noldor there. The survivors from Gondolin . . . Maedhros would not have ordered his own people attacked.”  
  
“You think that it would matter if they were Noldor or Orc-kind?” she asked hollowly. “Noldor, Sindar, Teleri – it makes no difference to the blind eyes of their Oath.”  
  
Sirion was one of the last strongholds of the Eldar, she thought then. Morgoth must be _laughing_ in the north . . . for there was nothing left to stand against him. No one left to protest his rule. All of their hopes now rested on her husband's mad quest to make it West, to plead with the Valar for their aid in chaining their wayward kinsman. While she did not carry Eärendil's easy belief – and she privately held a deep seeded frustration that Middle-earth had been left to so long toil while the Valar did _nothing_ , at that - she understood the necessity of his mission, the desperate need they all had for its success.  
  
“Our . . .” Eärendil had to work to form his question. “Our sons?” he finally asked, the words forced from his mouth. “What became of them?”  
  
Elwing flinched at the question. She had given them to their nurse's care, trusting that they would be safe with those who lived, and yet . . . She thought that she heard a small voice cry _Naneth_ as she fell. Was it in her mind, as Elrond sometimes had a talent for speaking into, or did she truly hear . . . If Eliedis fell, and her sons tried to make their way back to her . . . Maedhros and Maglor were right there. _Right there_ , and . . .  
  
Did _they_ have them? She thought sickly. Did _they_ . . .  
  
“I do not know,” she whispered. “They are alive, and yet . . .”  
  
Elwing looked up, and saw where Eärendil moved to hide both his shock and something else . . . something darker as it crossed his face. _He blames me_ , she understood then. _He judges me_. Anger filled her, thick and fey in shape – for it was he who had _left_ first, it was he who had _abandoned_ his family long before she did. It had not mattered, she had long thought, for she was used to depending on herself, and she had thought to be mother enough to her sons to compensate for the absence of their father. And yet, now . . .  
  
“Do not look at me like that,” where her thoughts were sharp, her voice came out weary. Dull with enervation. “They still live. I can feel that at least.” That much she could feel in her heart, and _kn_ _o_ _w_. Even though they flickered across her spirit with the distance between them, she could still feel them – and would continue to do so until the veil of the West swallowed her.  
  
Eärendil could only ever feel his sons as a faint ghost across his senses. He had not been there for her pregnancy or their birth, and his few, short visits to port afterward were not enough for him to develop a soul-deep bond with his children. She buried an old feeling of bitterness at the thought, not wanting it to show on her face now.  
  
Still he stepped back from her, the small space of the cabin not allowing him room enough between them. “You left them,” he echoed hollowly. “You chose the jewel over our people, over our _sons_. You . . .”  
  
“Do not you dare,” she hissed, her voice low and seething with her anger. If he were closer, she did not know if she would have been able to keep from striking him. “You are no different than I, to stand there in your righteousness – for you have long held the sea as your wife and your quest as the child of your heart. Do not . . . _do not_ judge me for what you cannot _possibly_ understand.”  
  
The Silmaril consumed her, she could not find the words to say. The Silmaril _was_ her at times, so much so that she could not tell where its light ended and the light of her own soul began. It was a part of her, as much as it was drenched in the blood of her kin, and she could not . . .  
  
In her hands, the gem shivered as if laughing. While it was beautiful and holy, it was also the child of Fëanor's soul, and it yearned to return to the sons of its maker. It yearned as she yearned . . .  
  
“The sons of Fëanor are not evil,” she tried to force the words out. They were hollow to her own ears. “They . . .” And yet, while they were not evil, they were not merciful. Her brothers were hardly older than her sons when Doriath fell, and they were shown no quarter. She . . .  
  
. . . by Eru, but what had she done?  
  
What had she done?  
  
_Do not look back_ , Nimloth's voice rang in her ear, while her own child-self whispered: _Why did you not love me enough to surrender the jewel? Why did you choose this gem over me, over my brothers, over our family, our people? _Why . . .__  
  
Elwing suddenly felt sea-sick; nauseous and claustrophobic in the small cabin. It was then as if the Silmaril burned her hands; she could not stand to hold it any longer. She threw it, feeling a vicious satisfaction fill her as it bounced off a wall to skip across the floor, coming to rest in some shadowed, empty corner of the cabin. She _hated_ the gem and all that it stood for. She _hated_ it almost as much as she hated . . .  
  
_. . ._ _h_ _erself_ , the thought fell to pierce her mind like an anchor through the waves. She felt cold and hollow, as if her bones were glass and her skin parchment, with not even the Silmaril's light left to shine through her illusion of self once more.  
  
Elwing held her face in her hands, finally allowing herself to cry. She did not know what she cried for – the abandoned child she had been, or the children she left to the care of those _monsters_. Her sobs were full and ugly, wracking her form with their intensity until she felt the bed dip underneath Eärendil's weight as he sat next to her. He wrapped her in his arms, making soothing noises as he ran a hand though her hair, not quite sure how to ease a pain that had been waiting to come out for so many years now. She could feel his grief and anger eat at their bond – not wholly at her - and it was enough to draw her tears over anew.  
  
For a brief, humorless moment, she wished that she was as a bird again, with nothing but the sky and the sun on her wings to draw her cares. She wished for the breathlessness of flight, for the simplicity of joy that had been beyond her reach for so many years. _A bird does not have these cares, these loves_ , she thought with an ache. And yet, for all of her wishing, she was left with herself and her long bones; her black hair and her elven eyes as she let her husband hold her and mourn a grief of spirit that was too great for words.  
  
In that forgotten corner the Silmaril shone, and for the first, its light went on ignored.  
  



	47. "where no water flows"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor & Maedhros & Elrond & Elros || Prompt: _Depth_ , Free-write
> 
> Because this just _had_ to be written after the last one. This can also be seen as a prelude to chapters 27 and 32. :)

**Depth _  
  
_**_I killed them,_ was the only thought he could pick from the jumbled mess of threads that was his mind after the First Kinslaying. Maglor had not been able to form any other thought, any other _truth_ than that, his pulse nearly painful as it throbbed in his neck. At his side, Maedhros had not been able to look at him as they crossed the ocean, burdened as he was by his own guilts. Worse than the mirrored disbelief on his brother's face was the terrible satisfaction in his father's eyes - the determination and righteousness belief in the validity of their actions. Maglor could not bring himself to look his father's way lest Fëanor see the turmoil in his gaze and rightly interpret it. His hands smelled of ash and leather and the sharp copper of blood, each rolling in his stomach as a counterpoint the sway of the ship beneath him. He had thought to be sick, and he instead forced himself to concentrate on the sea salt in the foam of the waves. He leaned into the black humidity that came with the ocean and its storms, and found but a little peace. He has not been able to rid himself of the pull of the sea ever since.  
  
_I_ _have_ _killed me_ , he could only think the second time. Alqualondë could have been explained; rationalized, _reasoned_. He could plead mercy for the insanity of the days after Morgoth's grip left the throat of his family, choking away all that was good and warm and _bright_. They were not in their right minds at Alqualondë, any of them. That lie fell, useless, when the snow outside of Menegroth showed the red of blood a hundred times more clearly than the pale sands of the seashore. He did not remember the screams from Doriath so much as he remembered the silence that followed. The winter-wood was soft, heartbreaking in its pure beauty as Maedhros screamed two names that would never be answered to again . . .  
  
_The children are dead_ , he said when their steps led them in circles. _There is nothing more you can do._ He did not know whom he referred to, Dior's sons or their father's sons. It did not matter, and Maedhros did not ask him to clarify his words.  
  
The third time, he thought nothing. It was second nature as breathing, the arch and cut of his sword. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was cutting through Orc-flesh, that he rid the world of filth rather than his kindred. It was the only way he was able to move forward without stumbling. He let his gaze turn dim and unseeing, caring not if he fell in their mad rush for that which was always beyond their reach. Distantly, he remembered not even being a century old in Aman. He remembered his father teaching him to wrap uncertain fingers over the hilt of a sword, how the weapon had felt heavy and cumbersome and his arms even more awkward and heavier still. He had to learn the grace his brothers so easily uncovered, and Fëanor scathed _you just died_ as he struck through his half-hearted defenses, over and over again. _You just died again_.  
  
_Imagine you hold a flute instead of a sword,_ Curufin's laugh had been more of a sneer from the side of the ring. His mouth made an arrogant line on his face when Fëanor had to hide his amusement at his words.  
  
_It will come to you_ , Maedhros was kinder in his aid, while Fëanor only scowled as if piqued that any son of his could be so slow to learn any talent. Then, Maglor told himself that his sire's irritation did not wound him. It was not the first time that Fëanor had found frustration in his particular set of skills, and he knew it would not be the last. He could sing melodies that Manwë himself closed his eyes to, he could pluck reels that Vána would dance to, but he was not a creature of forge-flame - and for that Fëanor would always look on him and wonder just where his fire had aided in his birth.  
  
_Y_ _ou are dead_ , Fëanor whispered in his mind, and Maglor struck - slashing and parrying and thrusting and slashing and parrying and thrusting until the battlefield took on a melody of its own, a refrain he knew as well as his own breath, his own pulse.  
  
_You are dead – you are dead – you are dead._  
  
And yet . . . he lived through the melee. He survived. He always did.  
  
He survived, and only came back to himself in time to see Elwing aglow with holy light as she turned - and then both he and Maedhros were _lunging_ for the woman in white, desperately trying to catch her before she fell. Yet, as it always was with the Silmaril, they were not quick enough, and the sea took Elwing in a surge of white foam and bubbling tide. The sea took, and Maedhros cursed as he threw his sword to pierce the waves far below. His hollow shout of despair had been joined only moments later by the caw of a bird, a sea bird, Maglor had first thought until thinking the better of it. The bird glowed as if lit by a star, and for a moment the glassy brown eyes flickered, turning a silver shade of twilight, and then Elwing flew from them, the Silmaril bright upon the white of her throat.  
  
_Of course the Valar heard her_ _prayers_ , Maglor thought numbly, watching her fly away. _Of course._  
  
“Order the retreat,” Maedhros ordered on a hoarse voice. They turned from the balcony, their armored steps striking a discordant tone against the pale stone of Elwing's tower. “Our task lies in waste; we are finished here.”  
  
Maedhros' single hand clenched, making a fist. His face was eerily calm, the grey of his eyes taking on a shade of molten silver, bright with Fëanor's fire, and then -  
  
They heard a gasp, moving from the doors as two tiny figures ran forward.  
  
“Naneth!”  
  
At first, Maglor had not understood what he was seeing. He looked down – _down_ – to see two identical figures darting to where Elwing had disappeared. “Naneth!” the call was more of a sob in the throats of the children, and with a sudden flash of understanding, he recognized the black heads and twilit eyes. They -  
  
“Maedhros, the ledge -” he exclaimed, fearful of Elwing's sons trying to follow her the way she had gone.  
  
He caught one boy about the waist, and heard the child's sharp hiss of indrawn breath as he did so. He frowned, troubled at how easily he had been able to catch the boy before he noticed the pained eyes and the tender way the child tried to cradle his side. _He is hurt_ , Maglor understood, glancing to where Maedhros caught the second child before he could make it to where Elwing had disappeared over the balcony's edge.  
  
Even still, the boy's eyes looked down to the waves below, before he glanced up to stare at the sky. Maglor felt his heart twist, the battle-lust and adrenaline fueled haze that came with the fight already wearing away. His bones felt sharp against his skin in the wake of its departure.  
  
For a moment the child resisted Maedhros' efforts to turn him away from the small white smear on the horizon, bright against the setting sun. He stared, his eyes lost before Maedhros' firm grip finally won. In Maglor's arms, the child he held slumped. His breathing turned thick and heavy – and not just from grief and disbelief, he understood after a moment. Maglor shifted his hold on the boy's midsection, and flinched when he felt the tell-tale bumps that came with broken ribs. Something had clearly harmed the child – and whomever was tasked with watching the twins, he thought, for Elwing would not have left her children so unattended.  
  
“What do we do now?” Maglor asked his brother in Quenya. He was not sure if he spoke of Elwing gone over the waves, their men battling below, or the children and their wide, disbelieving eyes.  
  
A long moment passed, filled with only the crashing of the waves below. Above the sounds of the battle, Maglor thought he could hear the cries of a sea-bird from beyond. “We see to the dead,” Maedhros replied in the High Tongue, shielding the children from that much, at least. The boy in his brother's hold flinched, even so.  
  
The child he held did not blink. He simply stayed very, very still, doing his best not to move his injured side.  
  
“Come, we do not have much time left to us,” Maedhros cast one last glance to the horizon, and then turned away.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
They had only hours before the survivors of Sirion regrouped with Gil-galad's forces – even now a speck upon the horizon as ships approached from the Isle of Balar, rising green and proud in the distance. There was no time to properly see to their dead, and their casualties were instead burned in communal pyres as their souls were sung to Mandos' Halls. What they would find when they reached there, Maglor was not sure.  
  
“They are dead,” Maedhros said, numbly gathering the bodies of their youngest siblings from the refuse and debris. Maglor had already known, having felt the Ambarussa flicker against his senses before disappearing completely during the battle. Where once his soul had been filled with the cords binding him to his family, he now felt only another empty place. Another chasm. “They are dead,” Maedhros repeated, more to himself than to him, as if trying to make sense of his own words.  
  
_They have been for much long_ _er than this_ , Maglor kept his thoughts to himself. _Tonight we merely burned the bodies._  
  
As he sung the funeral rites, Elwing's twins kept close to his side – out of fear of the sword he wore on his opposite hip, or from seeing him as the lesser of two evils between he and Maedhros, he did not know. When his song came to an end, the twin on the right – Maglor could not tell if it was Elrond or Elros, for they refused to give their names - softly asked, “What about Eliedis?”  
  
“Who is Eliedis?” Maglor shaped his voice as gently as he could.  
  
The boy who spoke stood very close to his brother - who still looked ahead with glassy eyes, holding his hurt side with a careful hand. “Eliedis is . . . _was_ our nanny,” the child spoke so softly that Maglor had to concentrate to make out his words. “There . . . there was a beam that fell after Naneth told us to run. She was able to push Elros out from underneath, but . . .” the child faltered, and had to start again. “Her eyes were open, but she did not move after that. I . . . I could _feel_ her spirit leave.”  
  
The numb haze of apathy that had sustained him the day through cracked. Maglor swallowed against the sour taste that filled his mouth, even as he felt his Oath twist about his bones, even now demanding he walk on water to reclaim what was theirs if he could.  
  
The child – Elrond, Maglor deducted – let out a deep breath. “It is not right to leave her there. She should be allowed to find her way home, too.” He stared at the pyre, the flames catching in the grey of his eyes.  
  
Maglor glanced over at Maedhros, but if his brother felt anything – either grief at their own brothers' passing, or remorse at the child's words, or that same gnawing _hunger_ that their Oath gouged into his own bones – he gave no sign. “We do not have the time,” Maedhros said tersely. “Elwing knew what she was choosing when she kept the Silmaril from us. Let Gil-galad see to the dead, we must depart.”  
  
“And the children?” Maglor asked, hating the answer he knew would be given.  
  
Maedhros' look was cold. “Bring them,” he said tersely. “Elwing could not have gone far, and if she feels any sort of natural decency as a mother she will return – perhaps with her husband, who may prove to be wiser than she. We will then arrange a trade - their lives for the Silmaril.”  
  
That sour taste grew at the back of his mouth. Elrond pressed closer to his brother's side, standing between Elros and Maedhros as he paced before the blaze of the funeral pyre. The flames merged with the red spill of his hair, dancing over the copper plating of his armor until he seemed to be one with the inferno. Maglor looked away, instead glancing at the injured child who kept close to his side. Elros' eyes were still dim, and his breathing was heavy from the unnatural shape of his ribs. Soon, Maglor would have to try setting them, and repair what damage he could.  
  
“And, if Elwing does not return?” Maglor tried to make his voice strong, but the day had taken even that from him.  
  
Maedhros' mouth stretched in a grim line, as if cut from a knife. “Elwing's twins for our father's twins,” he shrugged his armored shoulders in a show of apathy. “It will be a fair trade once made.”  
  
He narrowed his eyes as Maedhros turned, already signaling for their men to ready to depart. Maglor stood with the children, feeling resolve harden about his heart. _You will have to go through me first_ , he thought fiercely, looking at the pyre burning before him. Already his Oath had retreated to linger behind his bones, and a now familiar self-disgust and wretched guilt was building within him. From one side of the sea to the next lives had fallen in the name of their cursed vow, and now . . .  
  
“Come,” he said to the twins. “It is time to leave.”  
  
Elrond flinched at the idea of leaving his home, even when it stood in ruin. His jaw clenched, as if he was fighting back tears, but he nodded even so. At his side, Elros looked to be little aware of the world around him. His pale grey eyes were glazed and heavily lidded. Maglor did not know how far the child would be able to make it before Maedhros declared it safe for them to stop for the night. Once, he did not have to think twice about whether or not his brother would put the wellbeing of a child before their own, and yet, now . . . he pushed the thought aside, liking it but little.  
  
“I will help,” one of their men stepped forward. Maglor looked to see Arheston – a strong elf with dark brown hair and grey-blue eyes. He was the captain of their archers, of which there were now few, Maglor spied out the numbers behind him – but he had once been a father and a husband, and he knew how to tend children well.  
  
“I thank you,” Maglor said gratefully. He mounted his horse and then reached down when Arheston helped pass Elros up to him. The child was boneless and silent, allowing them to do what they wished, and he felt another stab of worry pierce his gut at the boy's apathy.  
  
Down by Arheston, Elrond looked loath to leave his brother, but he too said nothing in complaint when Arheston mounted his own horse and picked up the second child to ride with him. Maglor could feel the elder twin stare at him, even as their host wheeled to follow Maedhros as they turned towards the north.  
  
_Hold fast, young one_ , he tried to touch the waning fëa before him with the light of his own, but he was unsure of how much Elros was aware of in his state. Careful of the child's hurt ribs, he tucked him close, and breathed in the scent of the sea as they made their retreat.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
Traveling was slow with the injured child, especially when they needed speed to carry them a safe distance away from Sirion. After galloping ten leagues up the coast, Elros fell blessedly unconscious in his arms. Grateful, Maglor hummed underneath his breath, trying to aid the boy's healing with the song falling from his mouth. The skin underneath the child's tunic was warm, as with fever. When they slowed to a walk for the narrow path on the cliffs that rose to dominate the shoreline, Maglor lifted the boy's tunic to see a molting of purple bruises, turning yellow and brown about the edges. He could not be sure of how deep the damage went until they came to a proper halt.  
  
“Maedhros, _the child_ ,” he finally snapped once they passed another league, Elros' breathing grew labored, even within his sleep. If his brother pushed them they ran the chance of the boy's lungs collapsing, or of some infection setting in. An elven child could withstand much, but this boy had just suffered a shock to his fëa, and, when there was also the blood of Men to consider . . .  
  
Did the Pereldar take sick, he wondered then? He had never been close enough to one to know, and if they killed Eärendil's son through their inattention . . .  
  
“We are not far enough away to evade the support from Balar should they choose to attack,” Maedhros returned icily. He reined his horse alongside his own, but his eyes simply flickered over the molting of bruises on Elros' side before falling away.  
  
“If you push us any further, you shall have a corpse to hand to Eärendil. Imagine how inclined he shall be to give us our Silmaril _then_ ,” Maglor returned, his voice matching the other ice for ice.  
  
Maedhros' jaw squared. His grey eyes were the color of steel then, and for a moment, Maglor did not recognize his brother.  
  
“Your men are tired,” he tried next, “and their hands are stained red with elven blood. Let them rest.”  
  
“Not through choice of _ours_ ,” Maedhros bit out tightly.  
  
“Nonetheless,” Maglor returned. “See reason, brother.”  
  
Maedhros was silent for a long, long moment. He did not give a word in answer, but he did stop his horse within the next thicket of birch trees that stood tall beyond the cliffs. Their position here, high from the sandy shore below, would be defensible enough, and they would be able to see any men Gil-galad sent long before they arrived. Maedhros did not look his way, he simply swung down from his horse and started untacking the animal, even with his one hand. His furious eyes dared him to say anything about his decision.  
  
But Maglor knew how to take what he could in this land. He left the setting up of their camp to the others, taking off his own cloak to lay the injured child down upon the sand. He felt a shadow come over him, and he glanced to see Elrond kneeling in worry beside his brother. He took his twin's hand in his own, and while he said no words, Maglor knew that he had not left Elros' mind since they passed the broken gates of Sirion.  
  
Calmly, he felt and found where three of the boy's ribs were broken on the left, and one was fractured on the right. He had been hit squarely, but the small size of his body prevented him from taking any more of the weight of the beam upon himself, Maglor would say if pushed to guess. The nanny had not been so lucky, he thought grimly. He could not bind the child's chest without constricting the healing process and hampering the safety of his lungs. All he could do was apply a cold salve to his skin, and sing what few songs of healing he knew – encouraging the bones to knit and the bruises to fade. But he was no physician, and they had long lost the few stronger healers amongst them – their Oath allowing not of such souls to follow their cause for long.  
  
It was a long night, and an even longer day following. It was immediately apparent that he was far out of his depth. Oh, he knew how to tend children – he had five younger brothers and too many cousins to count, all years younger than him . . . but this was different. This was not the same.  
  
That first night, Elrond did not sleep. Instead, he curled himself around his brother's body, humming underneath his breath as he rested his hand on his twin's broken ribs. Maglor recognized his clumsy attempts to recreate his own song of healing, and he let the child do what good he thought he could. Elros opened his eyes the next day, but he never became completely aware of his surroundings. His eyes were dull and he did not say a word, not even to give voice to his pain or ask of the home he had been taken from. His flesh turned pallid as the hours passed and his eyes were unblinking, no matter what was going on around him. When Maglor touched his hand to the child's brow, he could feel his fëa just barely clinging to its will to live. He felt true worry fill him in reply.  
  
There was a reason that elvish parents waited until times of absolute peace to bring their children into the world, for their early years of development were crucial, and a harm befalling both, or even one parent could result in the fading of the child. Elven parents acted as an anchor for the souls of their children, and with that anchor cast aside . . .  
  
How young were they? Maglor tried to guess, but could not figure with the blood of Men quickening the growing process in the bodies before him. He would assume twelve or thirteen from their height and the developed cast of their thoughts, but he was startled when Elrond quietly answered, “Six,” without him even having to ask out loud.  
  
_So young_ , he thought, trepidation filling him anew. It just may be the blood of Men that would save them in the long run, he tried to hope, for mortal children had the same strange hardiness of spirit that their elders bore. Yet, as Elros faltered, Elrond seemed to follow him – the twins bound soul to soul more so than they were even bound to their parents. Maglor watched, and yet he found himself powerless to help.  
  
Days passed, yet Maedhros did not move them to break camp, as he had first expected. Maedhros did not ask for the welfare of the children, but he could see him linger when he thought he would not be noticed. Maglor wondered how long his brother would be able to pretend at apathy before his own lies failed him, but even that thought was pushed away as he tried to sing once more to the fading soul before him, determined to keep the child with them by whatever powers he had within him.  
  
A week after Sirion's fall, they were approached by a messenger bearing a white flag – informing them that High-king Gil-galad himself was willing to meet with them for the return of the children. Although he was loath to leave the children behind, he was eager for the chance that either Eärendil or Elwing had returned and wished to exchange their sons for the Silmaril. It was a hollow hope, but hope it still was, for Maglor did not know how long the twins would last on their own.  
  
The meeting, however, went far from how they would have hoped. Gil-galad came, flanked by Celeborn on one side and a blonde Sinda on his left whom Maglor did not recognize. While Gil-galad was calm with his reasoning, the silver lord to his right was barely able to keep from crossing the white line between them. Violence clung to his skin, and the light of his fëa rose from his body with the great effort it took for him to lash his temper in. Even with his arm bound and in a sling, Maglor knew that they would have a foe on his hands if their talk deteriorated in any way. The Sinda was silent, but there was a cold hatred in the haughty cast of his features that was just as dangerous as Celeborn's righteous indignation.  
  
Thankfully, their parley was kept civil. Once, Maedhros had been revered in the court of Tirion for his silver tongue, and Gil-galad was young but wise underneath the weight of his crown. Unfortunately, the fact of the matter remained that Eärendil had not been seen in over a year, and Elwing had not been heard from since her deliverance at Ulmo's hands. They came to plead for the return of the children in good faith – but in good faith only, for Gil-galad knew as well as Maedhros that he did not have the army to spare on a full on assault with his men so thinly stretched trying to keep Morgoth at bay. Their numbers were not what they once were, and they fought a hopeless fight against the black Vala in the north – a hopeless fight that suffered all the more so with each rift that grew between their people.  
  
They could not afford to fight amongst themselves, Gil-galad tried to urge, but Maedhros coldly held to his belief that violence could have been avoided had Elwing decided differently – and until what they sought could be returned to them, the children would remain where they were.  
  
Maglor kept his thoughts to himself as they turned away, disappointed but not surprised with Maedhros' decision. He only hoped that the Pereldar would be strong enough to live through the blow life struck them, elsewise their treaty with Eärendil in the time to come would be perilous indeed.  
  
Their journey back to camp was tense. Maedhros did not take counsel with him, for the words Maglor had to say were not those he wanted to hear, and his own rage was thick and sweeping beneath his skin as his frustration mounted all the more so with every step they took.  
  
It was already evening by the time they returned, and Maglor instantly knew that something was wrong for the way Arheston approached them, his mouth a grim line and his hands fisted at his side.  
  
Maedhros tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as the captain met their eyes. Arheston looked as if he wished to look anywhere but at them when he said: “The children are gone.”  
  
Maglor blinked, surprised. Maedhros, however, was not so subdued in his response. “Gone? What do you mean they are _gone_?” His voice was hissed through his teeth, rumbling up from his chest like forge fire.  
  
Arheston fought away a flinch. “I thought they were sleeping,” he answered. Maglor peered inside of his tent, and saw the cleverly arranged pillows within. “We have searched the camp, and were widening our search to the trees beyond when you returned.”  
  
“Crafty child,” Maglor muttered beneath his breath when he realized that his cloak was gone, along with the satchel of herbs and poultices that he had been using to tend to Elros. Elrond would have to half drag his brother if he hoped to get far, but he had stubbornly set to doing so.  
  
“How can you lose a pair of _children_?” Maedhros' voice was incredulous, he seeing what Maglor saw almost instantly. “They are hardly out of swaddling clothes -”  
  
“ - and one grievously injured, at that,” Maglor interrupted, cutting through his brother's anger before it could truly take flame. “They could not have gone far.”  
  
Instantly, Maedhros' ire cooled. His anger still rested in his eyes, but he bit his tongue to keep from giving voice to his thoughts. His gaze flickered to the line of trees that separated their camp from the cliffs beyond.  
  
In the sand, they could see where the children fled, and years spent tracking down Celegorm as a child – a fully healthy and _mischievous_ child, at that – made quick work of their picking up the twins' trail. It did not take them long to realize that they headed to where the waves pounded against the tall cliffs beyond, and Maglor felt a knot of worry rise in his throat as he considered just why Elrond would choose to take that direction.  
  
“The shore will lead them south to Sirion,” Maedhros muttered underneath his breath. “That must be his reasoning.”  
  
Maglor could not so easily fool himself. “Perhaps,” still he answered, his voice toneless as they broke through the trees to see the brown rock that made up the crown of the cliffs that lined the shore.  
  
He cast a worried eye about the barren landscape, looking until he saw two tiny figures at the cliff's edge. Elrond had laid Elros on the cloak he stole and was dragging his brother across the rock to the best of his ability, but his going was slow and he struggled. They made quick work of catching up with the twins, just in time to see Elrond aid his brother in standing, half leaning Elros' weight against him as he crept closer and closer to the edge. He looked down when the toe of his boot sent a rock tumbling into the angry sea below – down and down and _down._  
  
Elrond paused, obviously gathering himself, when -  
  
“Child!” Maglor implored before Maedhros could speak – not wanting his brother to frighten the boy into jumping. “Back away from the ledge.” He tried to inflect a note of coaxing into his voice, weaving his words with a subtle Song as he so often had when he needed his own brothers to listen to him in dire times.  
  
Elrond turned to him, putting his back to the sea. But he would not step away from the edge. He leaned against the open air as if making a threat. “We will follow Naneth,” he said. His words were strong and his eyes were level, but Maglor could see where his hands shook. In his hold, Elros blinked slowly, as if not entirely aware of what was occurring around him.  
  
“The Valar choose their favourites,” Maglor disagreed, kneeling down and holding his arms open to the boy. A sick desperation reeled inside of him, and he could not, he _would_ not see a life lost so carelessly before him. “Ulmo chose your mother, and you . . . you will not fly as she did. You will strike the rocks. You will _die,_ you and your brother too.”  
  
Elrond's eyes narrowed, flickering from him to Maedhros. Wisely, Maedhros remained silent before taking a step back entirely, knowing that the twins would be quicker to approach Maglor rather than him.  
  
“Where will you go, even if you do fly? Will you be able to make the long flight to Sirion? Can Elros?” Maglor tried a different tactic. _The Valar are not kind, they will not look down on you in mercy_ , he wanted to plead – but how could he explain that to a child who had only known destruction from the hands of he and his? “Think of your brother,” he entreated, and at last he saw the boy's stony facade waver. “He is hurt; he needs help.”  
  
“Not from _you_ ,” Elrond returned in a low voice, and Maglor flinched as if struck.  
  
“Then who shall?” he asked bluntly, infusing his words with power until they were as weights when spoken. “Do you expect the Valar to help you? Do not – do not ever – for it is up to _us_ to forge our fates in this land. Sirion is far behind you, and we are Elros' best choice if you wish for him to recover.”  
  
Elrond wavered, glancing from the waves to him as if he could not decide which was the worst of fates. He was unsteady on his feet, clearly exhausted from both his escape and the events of the past week. His eyes were red from a lack of sleep, and his flesh was the same pallid grey as Elros'. Even while supporting his brother, he held his own side in discomfort, feeling his twin's pain as his own and unconsciously taking what burden he could onto himself. As close as Maglor was with Maedhros, even they did not share such a bond, but the Ambarussa had been much the same . . . so much the same. His memories brought a pain of their own, and his next exhale shook.  
  
Over all else, he could feel the child's spirit, torn and heart-sore as it flickered in the shell of his body. He did not know what to do but to kneel in the sand and push feelings of _comfort_ and _promise_ across the distance between them. He did not know how much he got through or how much he was believed when Elros at last tugged at his brother's tunic. All he said was, _“Elrond,”_ in a hoarse tone, but it was enough for the boy to look down, his decision made.  
  
He took one step away from the cliff, and that was all the sign Maglor needed to step forth and draw them back a safe distance from the edge.  
  
“Then help him,” Elrond whispered as he picked Elros up, wincing when he felt how their desperate flight had injured the boy's ribs all over again. His breathing was labored, and Maglor could hear a wet sound from where he breathed though his mouth. Queasy with fear, he wondered if his lungs had been punctured or bruised. And, if they were . . .  
  
But he could not think about that now. “I will,” he nonetheless swore. He foolishly gave his oath, and Elrond nodded in acceptance. He did not understand why, but the child believed him. In that moment, nothing else mattered but keeping his word, as if one soul saved could make up for the multitudes lost by his hand, and -  
  
He saw Elrond flinch, still in tune to his thoughts as they spun, and Maglor carefully called his mind to order. He forced his spirit to calm.  
  
By the time they returned to camp Elros had already lost consciousness, for which Maglor was grateful. He could feel the bones beneath his hold grate as he walked, and he hummed underneath his breath to deepen the boy's sleep as much as he could.  
  
When they returned to his tent Maedhros held the flap open for him, and then lingered. Maglor looked up, surprised, for on his brother's face was true concern – such as he had not openly showed since Fingon's death. Maedhros reached out to touch Elros' brow, frowning as he caught the trail end of his last thought. At Maglor's opposite side, Elrond stiffened for Maedhros touching his brother, but he remained silent.  
  
_He may not last through the night_ , Maedhros said into his mind, shielding Elrond from his words. _His_ _fëa_ _falters._  
  
Maglor turned to Elros, his jaw set in determination. _But, he_ _ha_ _s not_ _faded_ _yet._ _There_ _i_ _s still hope._  
  
For all of his strong words, Elros only grew worse as the night approached. His lungs had indeed been punctured, as Maglor had feared, and his breathing turned heavy and labored as the sun set and the dark stretched across the land. Maglor sat crosslegged on the bedroll, cradling Elros against his chest as he sang, trying to use words of healing to urge the broken spirit in his arms to strengthen and mend. But the child's fëa still faltered. It was mired in a grey haze, and no matter how he shaped his song or entreated with his words, he could not convince it to turn towards life again.  
  
The whole time Elrond stayed close, holding Elros' hands in his own and resting his head where he could stare at his brother's closed eyes. Maglor knew the pain of sharing siblings with Námo, and an awful voice inside of him whispered that if he lost one child, then he would most certainly lose them both. He swallowed against the truth, refusing to give it thought.  
  
. . . he would not be able to live with himself if that happened. Already he dragged himself through life with the weight of so many souls heaped upon his shoulders. His hands were reddened to the point where there was no hope for ever cleansing them again, and yet, these last two losses would be the final straw to break him utterly.  
  
Halfway through the night, Elros' heartbeat slowed. With each shallow breath his fëa turned more and more translucent, just barely anchoring itself to the mortal plane. Maglor did not know how much longer Elros would hold on to the primordial instinct to _survive_ , to _live_. The boy in his arms was already corpse-cold, and yet, instead of withdrawing his support and quietly let his soul slip away he could only think: _no_.  
  
Determination filled him anew as he reached out with the light of his own spirit. Even as mired as it was with his many sins, he was still able to gently hold the waning soul before him. Stubbornly he held on, refusing to let go. He felt his eyes glaze over, falling into the same trance that would take him whenever he was completely engrossed in his music. Entwined that deeply with Elros' soul, Maglor could feel his bond with his twin, and Elrond blinked, startled by his presence brushing against his own mind as a result.  
  
_How are you here?_ he asked, wary, but too tired to ask anything more than that.  
  
_I told you_ , his mind's voice was more than the voice of his mouth; a sound that spoke into marrow more so than ears. _I am here to help._  
  
Elrond did not believe him . . . neither did Elros, he realized. Maglor understood then that it was not the child's body he should have first coaxed to heal. Instead he should have given the boy a _reason_ to heal, a reason to continue. He first needed to attend to the scars of consciousness that showed as deep gouges before his mind's eye. He gently dipped beneath the surface of the two small minds, and felt only their confusion, their hate and their fear and their _missing_. He saw Sirion burning from their eyes; he could feel as the sharp bite of ash and flame filled their mouths and noses. He could feel their desperate horror when the beam fell in the tower – weakened from the fires beneath. He could feel Eliedis' death, how that severed cord shocked their hearts, even as the onslaught of the warring and the dying pushed in on them from all sides – and it was not the dreaded Orcs of stories that they fought, no, it was kindred, it was _Elf-kind_ who drew sword against sword, and to be of so few years and exposed to such a horror . . . He looked, and felt their confusion and denial when Elwing jumped – _abandoning_ them, leaving _without_ them, and -  
  
\- _I understand_ , he breathed, _dear child, b_ _elieve me when I say that_ _I do understand_. As gently as he could, he opened his own mind in return. He did not know how to explain his history of centuries in moments, but he did his best. He summoned to mind his memory of his father – great and terrible and _breathtaking_ – and the inspired work of his hands. He shared the glory of the Two Trees and the black stain that was Morgoth upon that beauty, devouring it until nothing was left but for the light his father had trapped away. He tried to explain the Oath they swore, shielding the children from feeling the full brunt of his chains – only letting a whisper of the Darkness awaiting their failure swim across their senses before leashing it back again.  
  
He let them feel his horror and sorrow for Alqualondë, and his relief for the years that he had been able to serve both Endórë and his Oath at once. He let them feel the joys of their victories and the agonies of their defeats . . . and that final, awful defeat at the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. He let them feel the pain that devoured their souls with every day they tried to ignore their Oath, for oh, how they _tried_ to turn their foolish vow of tongue aside, until, _finally_ . . .  
  
He mourned every life lost from Doriath to Sirion, he let the young ones see. It was not enough, and it never would be, but he let them _see._ He shared everything, giving all that he had to give. As he shared the force of his own life, he could feel the child in his arms grow stronger and stronger still.  
  
And then, he started singing. What started as a song of healing turned into strands of his Noldolantë – the great history of his people and their deeds both high and low. He wove together both his voice of gold and the sheer, incalculable magnitude of his own soul – succored upon the light of the Trees and begotten by the Spirit of Fire himself - until it all but lifted from his skin as a near tangible light on the air around him. He sang, pouring his all into his words, giving and giving and _giving_ -  
  
_What is_ _this_ _?_ He heard Elrond's voice shape in awe. _This is more than_ _mere_ _music . . ._  
  
_This world was birthed through Song, and that Song can still be_ _joined by our voices_ _._ _It is the song you hear in the trees, the cadence in the waves. Many of the_ _Children can_ _hear_ _it,_ _even if they do not understand that which they listen to – but only a_ _few can_ _truly_ _recreate it,_ _even when all of our songs echo it to a point,_ Maglor answered as best as he knew how. He wove together the Song of the sea, the melody of the rock and shore itself. He pulled down strength from the stars above and drew from the hundreds of sleeping souls within their camp to recreate the fledgling soul before him. He felt fit to burst with the power of the Song he wielded, but he did not let it go. _Healers can give of their own fëa to aid the Song of another,_ he continued. _It is what I try to do now._  
  
_Are y_ _ou one of these_ _h_ _ealers?_ Elrond asked, curious. It was strange, Maglor thought, that the child could see through the power of his Song to speak mind to mind with him, finding him as a calm in the storm.  
  
_No,_ _I am not a healer,_ Maglor answered ruefully. Perhaps he could have been, but he had darkened his soul with too many ill deeds for that. _Yet, I can hear the Song_ _and recreate it_ _. . . more so than any other left of our kind, perhaps._  
  
_It is beautiful_ , Elrond whispered. _I have never heard anything so beautiful before._  
  
_It is life_ , Maglor replied, feeling his heart twist in his chest. _It is life itself . . ._  
  
_Show me_ , Elrond said after a moment. _I want to help._  
  
Maglor did not know what aid an untrained child would provide, but he was Elros' twin, and he could only do good in coaxing his spirit back to life. Shielding him from the transfer of power, Maglor illuminated the notes that reflected the Song of the world around him – singing in harmony with the sky and sea and stars to the point where they all were _one_ for that moment in time.  
  
Naturally, needing but little of his coaching, Elrond added his own voice to the Song, and Maglor felt amazement when the child drew from the melody to strengthen his own soul before using his inner light to bolster the spirit of his brother. _A healer in the making_ , he thought before turning his own attention to Elros. The boy was trying to open his eyes once more. His lungs had cleared of fluid, and his bones tenderly went about setting themselves together again. They were close, he felt, so close . . .  
  
_He_ _al_ _child_ , he shaped his voice as soothingly as he could. He begged, he _entreated_.  
  
And, for the first time in centuries, he prayed.  
  
_Please_ , he gave his voice to he knew not whom. He did not know which of the Valar would hear him, and so, he laid his entreaties at the feet of Eru himself. He begged to one who had so long been blind to them all, and he hoped, that once . . . _P_ _lease, t_ _ake all that I may give if it means that he may but live . . ._  
  
He prayed, and he continued to sing.  
  
_Please . . ._  
  
And slowly, the world around him went from gold to black.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
“You are awake.”  
  
He had to force himself to swim above the comforting blackness of oblivion, slowly rising to consciousness after a long and groggy struggle. Once he did, he almost wished that he had kept himself to the peaceful nothingness that had previously engulfed him. His eyes burned as he blinked them against the light, orange and dappled through the walls of his tent. His mouth was dry and his lips were chapped as he worked to find his breath. He could not immediately sit up.  
  
There was a hand at his side, helping him sit upright in response to his thoughts. A moment later, he was passed a skin of water, and he drank, unreasonably thirsty in that moment. He breathed in and out for a long minute, letting his body find its bearings against the Balrog that was beating its fiery wings against the inside of his skull.  
  
He felt rather horrid, he finally decided. Horrid indeed.  
  
Beyond his tent, he heard the warm timbre of Arheston's voice, followed by the laughter of children. _Children_ , which meant -  
  
“Elros lived,” Maedhros said from his bedside, reading his thoughts before he could speak. “Through that night and many since.”  
  
Maglor blinked, not understanding his words. He did a double take at his brother, not understanding the dark circles underneath his eyes or the haunted cast of his gaze. His fair skin was pale, stark and white behind the silver ridges of his scars, making them even more prominent than usual. He looked, Maglor thought, as if he had not expected to ever see him again.  
  
“You have not opened your eyes for nearly two months,” Maedhros said. His voice was dry, lost in his throat. “You gave much of yourself to the child . . . almost too much.”  
  
But it won their lives, and maybe even more than that, he thought upon hearing Elros chatter about feathers and fletching arrows, while Arheston answered his questions in a patient voice. The boy sounded _happy_ , trusting even, which was no small feat in the face of where they had started from.  
  
“I would do it over again,” Maglor said, and knew that he spoke his words as true.  
  
Maedhros flinched, but he set his jaw in silence. Whatever thought rested behind the stone of his gaze he did not give voice to.  
  
“Have we heard from Elwing?” Maglor asked.  
  
Maedhros shook his head. “No,” he answered, “Though Gil-galad has twice tried again to claim the children. It is generally believed that Elwing will not return. They are convinced that she and Eärendil will continue West on his quest to find the Valar's sympathy and mercy.” There was a note of derision in his voice, for long had Maedhros succumbed to hopelessness in the fight against Morgoth.  
  
His heart hurt at his brother's words, not for himself, but for the twins. They would not be claimed by their parents, he thought hollowly. He had already witnessed the scars their young souls bore, and to have such scars further etched in and then left to heal . . . He took in a breath at the thought, and let it out slow.  
  
Maedhros rolled his shoulders. “They will remain with us until Eärendil completes his quest,” he said, setting his mouth tightly. “The younger one has quite . . . _taken_ to life amongst us. We cannot get him to quiet.” He made a look of distaste, to which Maglor swore he was not amused. “The elder child has scarce left your side these last few weeks. He even tried singing to you – a song of healing, even I could recognize.”  
  
“Perhaps it worked,” Maglor raised a brow in reply, refusing to elaborate about the exchange of souls that had happened that night.  
  
Maedhros sighed, troubled. He swallowed, and Maglor had the oddest sense that his brother was trying to keep himself composed. “Do not . . .” he spoke, and then had to pause. He gathered himself. “Please . . . do not leave me like that again. I do not know what I would have done without you.”  
  
Maglor swallowed, and did so around a stone. Ever had he followed, not out of respect and love for their _father_ , who had long had but little of respect and love for _him_ – but rather, out of love for his brother. He had thought that Maedhros knew that by now. And yet, he had always known with a sinking certainty that he would be the last one left. In the end, Maedhros would leave him, and he alone would be left with his pains and his regrets weighing upon his spirit. It would be fitting, he thought without humor, for the coward that he was - never strong enough to accept the Darkness these three times now, letting the void claim his soul so that hundreds of others could live.  
  
He closed his eyes, and felt as if the ocean rolled behind his gaze.  
  
“I cannot . . . I cannot lose you too,” Maedhros whispered in a small voice, and Maglor reached over to take his brother's one hand in his own.  
  
“And you never shall.” _Not even after you too are gone_ , he promised within his mind. But that he could not bring himself to say out loud.  
  
Instead, silence fell between them, only broken by the sound of the children as they laughed beyond.

 


	48. "on earth as it is in heaven"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eärendil & Elros & Elrond || Prompt: _Walls_ , Free-write
> 
> This continues on the same train of thought as the last two updates. :)

**Walls  
  
** The first time the _Vingilot_ touched the heavens, Eärendil had not been able to breathe.  
  
_We shall fall_ , he had thought irrationally; his faith wavering in the face of the endless span of stars and night and _nothing_ before him. Even as his hands tightened about the helm and he braced for a plummet through the skies, his sails filled with the touch of a celestial wind and the deck swayed as if he truly sailed upon an ocean of water. Now his sea was that of firmament, and where once the stars had guided from above, they now welcomed him as companions - leaping and playing like dolphins in the coastal waters.  
  
Up close, the vastness of space was not black. Rather, it was every color imaginable - dancing from the darkest blue to violet and crimson and green. Vaporous trails of silver and gold dust followed the stars in their tumble, and Ithil was like an old friend to his starboard side, nearly close enough to touch – close enough that Eärendil could see the Maia's face, scarred and pocketed as he turned away from the far off Sun long enough to incline his head in greeting.  
  
And Eärendil stared, his jaw agape and his eyes unblinking. He felt as if he was a child staring at the sea for the first time, amazed for the pull of the tide and the roll of the waves. This, this was . . .  
  
_Where no mortal has ever_ _gone before_ , Varda had said as she touched his brow, anointing him with her power. _And yet, you are not merely mortal. Are you not, Eärendil, son of Tuor, beloved of Ulmo?_  
   
For all the grace of her gift, he knew the reasons she had behind it. He knew that she watched him as Aman tightened about him like a noose, the eternity Elwing chose stretching before him like a void, wide and yawning. He had completed his task for the good of all, but his quest had taken all from _him_ , and he selfishly dwelt on how he could reclaim but a fraction of what he lost.  
  
_You will never again touch the shores of Middle-earth_ , Manwë had whispered at his wife's side, his voice the clamor of the winds and the might of the heavens. _Yet, you_ _may_ _sail the_ _cosmos_ _as you once_ _sailed_ _the seas, giving light as a star to let those still toiling know the_ _ir fight has_ _not been for_ _saken_ _._  
  
_You will hear with our ears, my son,_ Varda kissed one round ear and then the other. Power burned in her mouth, and her lips felt more like the touch of light rather than the touch of flesh.  
  
_And you will see with our eyes_ , Manwë kissed one closed eye and then the next, and all Eärendil felt was the dance of the wind and an immense feeling of coolness in the wake of the Vala's touch.  
  
_And perhaps, through this gift, we shall repay that which was lost in the smallest of ways._ For the life of him, Eärendil could not help but think that there was sorrow in Varda's voice; shared pain and empathy. Her form was not wholly corporeal before him, flickering in washes of silver and white light – mimicking the play of the starlight he now sailed through. Her black hair had floated around the impossibly beautiful shape of her face, and in her eyes was the brilliance of the cosmos itself. Even so, he thought that he could see compassion therein as she touched his face one last time. He could feel the flare of her power – blessing him, opening the eyes of the heavens to see him as kindred, the same as she had first set the stars on their paths so many millennia ago.  
  
Manwë, white and blue at his wife's side, was more solid in form, nearly elf-like in the body he chose to wear. His hair was as white as the clouds, and his eyes were the painfully bright blue of a clear summer sky. Power poured from his strong figure and ornate robes, the same as the skies dancing over the earth itself. His features were sculpted and sharp, and yet, he was all the more beautiful for the severity of his countenance. He was a mirror for Melkor in all but coloring, Eärendil had heard whispered – they two being brothers as the firstborn of creation, first cast from Eru Ilúvatar's thoughts at the beginning of all things. He wondered if that likeness would be enough to prove Eönwë and his army triumphant when they finally marched upon the Dark Vala in the years to come.  
  
_If not, all that I have done will be for naught_ , Eärendil thought, but it was impossible for his thoughts to stay hollow in the face of such power . . . such grace.  
  
When Varda stepped away, Manwë held out his hand, beckoning him to where the _Vingilot_ waited. If the Vala heard any of his thoughts, he did not say. Instead he only inclined his head. _Go, dear one, and go with our blessing._  
  
Now Eärendil did not know where to look first – at the glorious dance of the stars, or the land that stretched far and wide beneath him. The sea sparkled silver and glass-like underneath the light of the full moon, touching the bays and harbors with graceful silver light. Small tongues of gold burned in the night - fires flickering in their hearths, candles shining from windows, and torches glimmering from streetlamps. He could not settle his eyes on one place only; he could not take everything in at once.  
  
That was, until he came to a cove some leagues to the north of what used to be the Havens of Sirion. Ruins stood on a cliffside, abandoned by some lord of Men and since left to return to the wild grip of the forest. The ruins were inhabited by a band of elves, perhaps some three-hundred strong. There numbers were a fraction of what their might used to be, Eärendil knew, and his jaw turned tight at the thought – for not easily had the walls of Sirion fallen.  
  
And yet, it was down at the base of the cliffs that caught Eärendil's eye. On the sandy seashore, two children looked in delight over the silver star-stones that glowed in the light from above. Two taller elves stood watching them, a smile touching the mouth of the dark haired adult when the children's search for stones turned into their splashing each other in the warm summer surf.  
  
_How long have I been away?_ Eärendil wondered, surprised for seeing just how much his sons had grown since last he saw them. He peered with Manwë's eyes, seeing his children awkward with added height (Elwing too had grown so tall so quickly by the grace of Thingol's blood – towering over him for two summers before he caught up with her), and their eyes bright with the vivaciousness of youth (and that too was so much like their mother that it _hurt_ to see). They were so very different from the toddling children he had held when last he walked Sirion's shores. He now looked as one hungry on the two small faces, unable to turn away, even to look on the glory of the firmament around him.  
  
Time passed differently in Aman, and what felt like days was weeks, and months years. Had four years passed since Sirion fell? Five years? He could not tell, and yet, judging by his sons . . . They had to be nearly ten years of age now. Eleven perhaps, but not any older than that.  
  
He swallowed, and swore that it was the light of the heavens that made his eyes burn.  
  
Eärendil could hear a rumbling of awareness from the earth below. From one end of Middle-earth to the next, eyes rose to the heavens to espy the new star in the night sky. In reply to his flight he heard everything from murmurs of hope and rejoicing to a black feeling of awareness and challenge from Morgoth in the north. The Dark Vala _laughed_ , as if daring his light closer, confident that it could harm him not.  
  
Eärendil made fists of his hands. He tilted up his head, letting the light of the Silmaril shine for all to see.  
  
And, finally, his light touched the seashore below. He looked down, hoping beyond hope that somehow his children would recognize him. That, perhaps, they would see and _know_ . . . He hoped that they would know that they were not forgotten, merely beyond his reach, forever to stay so, and -  
  
Finally, one dark head looked up, and then the other. But while they looked up curiously – understanding that the new light above them was no mere star, their eyes were only wondrous. There was no recognition there in. No spark of filial emotion. A moment later, they looked back to their game in the waves, uninterested in the light of the Silmaril shining overhead.  
  
And Eärendil exhaled a breath he had not known to be holding. His chest hurt as if from a wound, but he could not figure how to stay the flow of blood.  
  
. . . and yet, his sons were not the only one to recognize his light in the night sky.  
  
Maglor and Maedhros too looked up. Where Maglor wore a look of soft awe and appreciation on his face, Fëanor's eldest son stood rigid and unyielding. It was as if steel coated his spine, preventing him from taking an easy shape. In that moment, Maedhros looked _right at him_. Eärendil stared right back, and he was certain that Maedhros knew. He knew, and he understood.  
  
Maglor stepped closer to his brother, and Eärendil listened with Varda's gift. He listened, and he heard . . .  
  
“At least the Silmaril shines in the heavens,” Maglor pointed out. His voice was patient, even where his eyes were pained. “It is now far from evil hands.”  
  
“Yes, but it rests not in _our_ hands, and our Oath still stands,” Maedhros sighed. Belying the obvious anger in his voice, he swiped his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. His eyes were shadowed and haunted, burdened with many pains. Eärendil felt an uncomfortable wave of pity for the other man - an odd sort of twisting in his stomach, when for years he had known knowing nothing but hatred for the Kinslayers and their ways. For so long he had silently cursed them every time Elwing had a dark dream in the night, and in Valinor he had resented their actions whenever he returned to Elwing's tower in Alqualondë to hear her halls empty without the rest of his family.  
  
. . . and yet, such an absence was not wholly to blame on the sons of Fëanor. That he could admit to himself, at the very least.  
  
Anything more that Maglor would have said was interrupted by the children coming over to them. Eärendil looked, and felt a queasy sensation that he could not define when Elros looped his small hand through Maedhros' only hand, looking up as if to provide comfort for the elder elf's pain. Elros smiled widely, as if hoping to sooth what he could with his presence alone, and amazingly, something about Maedhros softened in reply. Eärendil swallowed, his question of whether or not his sons were cared for answered, even if the answer was little to his liking. He bit back his anger and jealousy, but it was a difficult battle.  
  
“You may stay out here stargazing,” Maedhros finally said. If he intended his words to be sharp, they only came out weary. “I have seen enough this night.”  
  
He turned, and after a look at Maglor, the twins hurried to follow him. Elros still tried to hold his hand, and Elrond stayed very close to his right side, looking up in concern for the turbulence in Maedhros' expression. Eärendil did not need the Valar's sight to see the affection binding them, and seeing the unconventional _family_ below was akin to suffering a blow. _It should be I they look to as such_ , he thought with a hurt too great to define. _It should be I receiving those expressions . . . their childish cares._ _It should be I, and yet . . ._  
  
And yet, Eärendil was far above them, and not once did they look up to see. What use was a new star in the sky when their guardian stood pained before them?  
  
Maglor watched them leave until he could see them no more, staring at where the surf rumbled up to sooth over their footprints in the sand, before erasing them completely.  
  
After Maedhros and the twins were out of sight, Maglor turned and looked back out to the sea. He seemed to be waiting for something, and Eärendil lingered in the sky, strangely summoned as the Fëanorian walked to where the water met the sand. He let the waves tug at his boots, gazing at where the stars painted the crest of the waves silver. Then, he sighed.  
  
As his brother had, Maglor found him with an unerringly accurate eye. He looked, and Eärendil had the strangest feeling that the minstrel was looking right at him. He blinked against the gaze, strangely feeling as a child before the might of the singer's presence.  
  
“There is no script for meetings such as this,” Maglor said a moment later. His voice was rich with power, projected to ensure that he was heard across the distance between them. Eärendil listened to the warm timbre of his voice, and listened closely.  
  
“If you could, I know that you would sail the waters rather than the heavens,” Maglor said. “I understand, then, that you have made it to the Uttermost West, and your pleas have been heard. You have also paid the price in bearing the hope of this world, and your sacrifice is the flight you now must maintain. A wall exists between the heavens and the earth, and yet, I will say what I can to breach it, for you deserve nothing less.”  
  
Maglor hesitated, looking down at the waves and then up again. “I know you wish to hear it not, but we do bear sorrow in our hearts for the destruction at Sirion. Your sons . . . they have been as a light in our darkened days, and I thank the One for the gift of them, even while knowing that they are a gift that we do not deserve. I . . . you must have such questions, and I have not the time to answer them, so I shall simply say this:  
  
“Your youngest is much like you. Elros is blessed by Ulmo, and he bears the sea in his heart. We can scarce keep him from the water, and already he builds up great fleets of ships on paper. He will be a master of ship-lore in the days to come, and the waves will grant to him much in return. He is so quick in his ways . . . so eager and bright with his passion and humor. There are times when we can scarce keep up with him, but it is exhilarating watching him grow. He reminds us what it is to be young again; young and eager for the days to come.  
  
“Your eldest is more sedate, serious even. Even so, he has a wry sense of humor that you would miss if you but blinked. He bears such power, a power that I cannot tell from Melian's gift in his blood, or from your own mother - for Idril was great in her own right. He bears the Sight, and the healer's gift is already strong within him. He will sooth many wounds in the time to come, and his wisdoms will shape the ages of the world. I am honored to have been allowed a hand in influencing him, as little as I may deserve it.  
  
“I . . . your sons are loved, Eärendil. They are loved, and loved dearly,” Maglor bowed his head, emotion choking his words. Eärendil stood very still, listening for his every syllable. “I cannot yet ask for your forgiveness; I shall not do so until a much later time in the ages of this world. But I will do this little, and take what comfort that allows me. I hope, in return, this brings you what peace it may.”  
  
His hands around the spokes of the helm were white and bloodless. For that moment he did not . . . he _could not_ breathe, overwhelmed as he was. Eärendil looked down, unable to work around his suddenly dry throat.  
  
He could only observe with the Valar's gift; he could not speak in return. Instead he reached up and placed his hand over the holy light of the Silmaril, before slowly drawing it away. Below, he knew his star flickered in the night sky. He knew that Maglor saw, and Eärendil hoped that he understood.  
  
The weary, ancient lines upon Maglor's face softened. He bowed his head one last time, and then he turned to follow his brother. Eärendil loitered in the heavens, watching where they had once stood for a long, long time.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
It took another six years before the sons of Fëanor completely gave up on his return to Middle-earth, and returned his sons to the care of Gil-galad and their kindred upon the Isle of Balar.  
  
Eärendil watched from above, almost nervous in his vigilance during those first few nights they spent in the High-king's court. Life in Balar would be worlds different than the nomadic lifestyle they had known for the greater part of their days. Maedhros ever kept his men close to the coastline, detouring only for those few, nearly disastrous months when Morgoth stretched his hand out to Amon Ereb. The last Fëanorian stronghold was destroyed, and the brothers had lost his twins to Orc-kind for two, gut-wrenching days. His light had been _red_ in the night sky during that time; nearly as red as Maedhros' cruel rage when he found the children again. So terrible was his might that even Morgoth's black filth had known fear for the fervency with which he had extracted his vengeance.  
  
Now Eärendil could catch but glimpses of those coming and going, straining an ear and endeavoring to make out what he could from the world below. Gossip reached him in bits and peaces, for the immortal folk of Balar were so eager for tales to tell that their stories were mostly just that. Eärendil heard everything from talk of his sons being assassins trained and planted to murder the High-king in his bed (never mind that the Fëanorians would not harm their own kind unless the Silmarils were involved), to stories telling how they were wild and savage for their years spent travelling the land (never mind that the Fëanorians had once been at the foremost of learning and wisdom as princes of the Noldor). Few stories rang of truth, and Eärendil waited, his heart in his throat for any sort of news – _true_ news.  
  
At the back of his mind, he could feel his bond with his wife swim to the forefront of his consciousness as his thoughts dipped and spun. Elwing had been beside herself with worry once he grimly announced that Maglor and Maedhros intended to let their children go – and his lack of news to report only furthered her anxiety.  
  
He bit back a mannish curse as he steered over Balar once more, once again hating the wall that existed between he and his family. He loathed it, this _guessing_ , this lack of _knowing_ , and -  
  
At long last, he caught a snippet of conversation from two Sindarin courtiers below. The two men were of Oropher's folk, he espied from the crests on their tunics, and he held his breath at their words.  
  
“Did you see how the younger one tensed when Gil-galad announced him?” the first one said.  
  
“Indeed I did! It was as if he was ashamed to bear his father's name,” the second agreed. “Though I do believe that it was the eldest who frowned so.”  
  
“No, the somber one is elder, the expressive one is younger.” Their conversation turned from anything useful, and Eärendil fought back a flare of temper for their senseless nonsense.  
  
“Indeed not,” the second disagreed. “I have heard it on good authority that it is the elder who wore the old Noldorin braids.” _The younger_ , Eärendil thought, remembering Elros' queer way of copying Maedhros down to the last detail.  
  
“And I have it on excellent authority that that is the _younger_ ,” the first elf only smiled wider. Any more so, and his smile would crack from his face, Eärendil thought unkindly.  
  
“Are you certain? I am not so certain.”  
  
“Either way, it does not matter. Did the boy expect to be announced _Fëanorian_?” the courtier chuckled darkly. “Their time with the Kinslayers has ruined them. Nothing fair or honorable will ever come of their deeds now.”  
  
“Such a pity that is,” the second inclined his head, “to see such good breeding wasted.”  
  
“Elwing never was the same after Doriath,” the first did not quite agree. “Perhaps the blemish was already in their blood? You saw how often she fought tooth and nail with our esteemed lord – after all! She took a _Noldor_ husband, and _Noldor_ advice from Celeborn's bride! Their time amongst the Kinslayers only assured the exposure of that unfortunate flaw.”  
  
“It was inevitable,” the second agreed, a mock sadness leeching into his voice. Far above, Eärendil clenched his jaw. “And yet, if they keep mainly to _Noldor_ business, I shall not care.”  
  
“Our lord will not allow for anything else,” the first said grimly, and at that they both smiled, as if relieved. Their conversation then turned to other things, and Eärendil turned away, disgusted. He had long known of Elwing's perilous hold over her father's people during her brief time as Queen of the Sindar in Sirion. She had been young, not even a century old in the faces of the ancient names around her. That, coupled with her own deepening obsession with the Silmaril had only gone to further the Sindarin belief in her incompetence.  
  
Eärendil sighed, weary for the flaws of his own people - and that was before he even let himself think about the threat weighing over them as a whole with Morgoth in the north.  
  
He cast his gaze further around the palace, a better understanding of the night's events forming in his mind. His sons had dwelt in Balar for nearly a fortnight, and it would make sense if Gil-galad held a formal function to introduce his children to the court. And, if that function did not go well . . .  
  
Worried now, he peered more closely, searching until -  
  
\- perhaps the One heard the turmoil in his heart, for when next he looked, he saw the twins themselves on an outer balcony, clearly seeking to escape the noise and ruckus of the gathering within. He blinked, taken aback by seeing both of his children in formal robes, with silver circlets on their brows and their hair glossed and ornately braided for the night. While still young, they were not _quite_ children, hovering as they were in that awkward place between childhood and adulthood. They were both tall, with gangily limbs that had grown faster than they could keep up with, while their features were just starting to sharpen with an adult's more pronounced definition. Their eyes were Elwing's eyes – Lúthien's eyes - even as they more and more resembled what Eärendil knew of his own grandfather. His ability to know Turgon, reborn from the Halls, was one of the blessings Aman did offer, he thought with a sad fondness.  
  
He looked, and found it easy to tell them apart when Elrond sat thoughtful and calm, and Elros paced agitated and restless before him. Elros fiddled with the long sleeves of his robes, tugging on the heavy brocade as if by doing so he could fit it better upon his body. Eärendil winced in sympathy, he having ever favored the loose and comfortable fit of a sailor's garb over the trappings of the court. That, he had gladly left to Elwing.  
  
“It was not intended as the slight you take it as,” Elrond was trying to placate his brother. Eärendil leaned over the helm, as if doing so would help him hear better.  
  
“Was it not?” Elros turned on his heel, disbelief pinching his brow as he stared at his twin. “ _Oh, what a tragedy you have endured_ ,” he pitched his voice to uncannily mimic the courtier Eärendil had overheard earlier. “ _To have survived so long in a camp of Kinslayers. To_ _have_ _persevered._ _To_ _have_ _endure_ _d_ _._ _However did you do so?_ Their words are laughable!”  
  
“They do not know what we do,” Elrond said diplomatically. His voice was a low, neutral tone. “They have known not one Kinslaying, but two from the Fëanorians. They will only let themselves see the body count left in their wake.”  
  
“Each conflict was as much the fault of Doriath and Sirion as it was the fault of the Fëanorians,” Elros returned, indignant. “So easily are the great deeds of renown our guardians accomplished in trying to unite this land against Morgoth forgotten. Maedhros fought more than any other to unite these peoples against Morgoth, and his accomplishments were a feat neither _Gil-galad_ or _Oropher_ or any of the other pandering lords here have _ever_ come close to. What was it that enabled the Sindar to live so safe and secure in their forests but for Noldorin blood and Fëanorian blades? It is a farce that their valiance is forgotten now – nay, it is an outrage!”  
  
“Spilled blood is fresh before them. They will not allow themselves to remember anything else,” even so, Elrond said his words mechanically, as if reciting from rote. He spoke, not from any real belief in his words, Eärendil saw, but rather, as a way to calm his brother from his rage.  
  
“Be that so,” Elros snorted, his eyes sharp with his anger. “I cannot abide it . . . to hear _their_ names so exalted . . . here Elwing is lauded for her bravery in surrendering her life to Ulmo's grace, and Eärendil is revered as a _hero_ for abandoning his family, for leaving his sons to the cruel mercies of the _Kinslayers_ they so revile. It _sickens_ me, to hear Maglor and Maedhros so demeaned while _their_ names are held on high.”  
  
At that, Elrond was silent, Eärendil hurt to see. He had nothing to say.  
  
“They _loved_ us,” Elros said, softer then. His voice lost its angry edge as grief bled through. “Those _Kinslayers_ loved us, which was something our own parents could not manage to find within themselves. They cared for us, taught us, and they even forced themselves to let us go. Why? For _us_. They let us go because it would be the best for _us . . ._ When did Eärendil ever put us first like that? When did Elwing ever care for us so?”  
  
Elrond was only silent in response to his words. Eärendil looked, and saw a grief in his eyes to match the pain in Elros' words. They both would have preferred remaining with the Fëanorians over dwelling with their kin in Gil-galad's keeping. They were not grateful and relieved for their return to proper elven society, rather, they each bore a grief to match what they felt when they left Sirion behind. Perhaps, it was a pain even more so with them each being old enough to properly understand and mourn the separation.  
  
His heart was heavy in his chest, for while he had long been able to convince himself that his was the only path he could have taken . . . the only course that was allowed to him . . . such things were never completely so. He had grievously hurt that which he was supposed to hold dearer than all, and he now had to suffer through the consequences, no matter how unintended such a hurt was.  
  
“Eärendilion, they called us,” Elros scoffed. His voice was quieter, free of its cutting edge. He stopped his pacing and sat down at his brother's side. From the calm composure on his face, Eärendil would guess that Elrond had been attempting to sooth his emotions through the whole of his tirade. He had finally succeeded. “ _Eärendilion,_ ” Elros repeated, baffled.  
  
“That is what we are,” Elrond pointed out. “And Gil-galad amended his words. _Peredhil_ , we are to be called. There are worse surnames.”  
  
“Half-elven?” Elros raised a brow. “While it shall not make me grind my teeth, it still does not assign honor where honor is due.” He glanced to the door of the balcony, making certain of their being alone – for all of his strong words and fierce speech, even he knew that some things were not to be spoken aloud. “ _Eleross_ _ë_ _Nelyafinwion_ ,” he touched his hand to his chest. His voice was little more than a reverent whisper. “Would that I be known by that name for the rest of my days. That, I would take true honor in.”  
  
Elrond raised a brow. “You mingle together the forbidden most impressively, brother,” he said. But there was no chastisement in his voice, only a subtle amusement.  
  
Elros gave a daring smile, hearing his twin's bemusement the same as Eärendil did. “Elerossë Nelyafinwion,” he repeated. “ _Nelyafinwion_.”  
  
“Each time you are addressed else-wise, you need only overwrite the words in your mind,” Elrond offered wryly. “I am afraid that anything more will be beyond your grasp – and you shall only frustrate yourself in the years to come.”  
  
Elros snorted, leaning back to slouch against the bench. He tapped Elrond's arm. “Already you become an animal of the court,” he complained. “Soon you shall be as a stranger before me.”  
  
“I would say that I learned both subtlety and the nature of futility from an alternate source,” Elrond said. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Please do not think that you are the only one who mourns, for you are not alone in feeling so. You are merely more vocal with your thoughts.”  
  
Elros gave an audible sigh through his nose. His face softened. “I know that, brother,” he said gently. “At least I will always have you,” he said then. “I . . . I do not know what I would do without you to keep me anchored. You have always been a calm in the storm for me, and you have to know that I value you more so than any other.”  
  
They were silent for a long moment, both lost to their own thoughts – or even each other's thoughts, they needing little more than the touch of spirits to communicate. Eärendil was silent and still in the sky above, unsure what to feel . . . unsure of what to think.  
  
There were voices from beyond the balcony, and Elros sighed in reply. “I do believe that we have been found,” he said.  
  
“Is that _fear_ I hear in your voice?” Elrond teased.  
  
“Of these wolves? It is absolutely fear I feel,” Elros admitted with a wan smile before rising to his feet again. Even so, his look was collected, and determination shone in his eyes. “Well then, I suppose that there is little we can do in delaying the inevitable.” His voice was resigned. In more ways than one.  
  
Elrond offered him a sympathetic look, and he too stood. Elros squared his shoulders and braved the din beyond them, but Elrond hesitated for a moment. He lingered, casting his gaze up to find his star in the sky. Eärendil had the uncanny sensation that his son was able to meet his eyes, to stare at him absolutely through the unfathomable depths of the cosmos between them.  
  
A moment later, he looked away.  
  
“Elerondo Makalaurion,” he gave on a soft voice. He spoke as if giving voice to a secret, dear and precious. Somehow, Eärendil could not help but think, he drew strength from the name. “Elerondo Makalaurion,” he whispered again, and then he joined his brother in braving the crowd.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
The sea was seemingly endless in its stretch around them. The horizon seemed no closer for their days upon the waves, and yet, the light of Gil-estel flickered above, ever assuring them of their path. Elros stood at the foredeck of the ship in wait, looking up at the darkening sky above them. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of red and flame, allowing the light of only one star to shine through – one impossibly bright star, flickering as a path of celestial brilliance through both night and day to lead them to the Land of the Gift.  
  
Elros looked, and wondered what the Valar were thinking when they set Eärendil upon such a course. While he was grateful for the blessings allotted to the sons of Men – his people now, in every way – he was still unsure what he felt about his sire being the one to lead them to their new land. All around him, wide mortal eyes looked at the sky in wonder, amazed for the honor that was paid to them with Earendil's guiding light, yet, Elros could not join in with their joy. He could not quite share their wonder.  
  
At least, he could not for Eärendil's course in the sky. He could understand and empathize with their joy for the land they were sailing to; the land that had been raised from the ocean in gratitude for Mankind's deeds of valor when aiding the Valar in defeating the Black Foe of the world. While he had known the choice of Men to be one already made in his heart, a choice of his spirit rather than a choice of his mind, he had not expected the crown of Númenor to be offered to him as a result – not when there were much older Men ready to take that mantle, all with great names and more respected family ties, all better set to rule than he.  
  
And yet . . .  
  
“While you have earned your crown though your deeds of renown and your ability to command, it is no empty gift that you are given. Rather, you are the _only one_ who can rule such a collective realm of mankind. For you are the heir of the House of Marach, are you not? You bear Hador's blood through your grandfather Tuor,” Eönwë had pointed out, cool and irrefutable in his logic as he replied to his doubts. “Through Tuor you are also the heir of Haleth and her house. Through Beren your great-great-grandfather you are heir to the house of Bëor and all the nobility of his people. The first Three Houses of Men have all combined in one man. _You_ , Elros, shall be the first of your name and the head of your own House, and your descendants will rise and fall from this side of the sea to the next.”  
  
“In deeds both great and terrible,” Elrond had added later, his eyes taking on the haze of the Sight. Since fully accepting his fey heritage, his abilities had grown in leaps and bounds, and Elros was happy for his brother and his gifts, truly he was. “Both the worst of humanity and the best will come from your line in the centuries to come, along with the one who shall eventually bring the might of our heritage full circle. Upon his head the crown shall lie, and through his grace all of the peoples of Middle-earth will be lead into a new age.”  
  
. . . yet, that was not for many years to come, and not even Elrond fully understood the visions he saw.  
  
Elros felt a pang, a now familiar one that came whenever he thought of his twin. Though over thirty years had passed since he made his choice, his relationship with his brother was still cool, where once it had meant everything to both of them. He was not yet used to such polite civility between them, and already he was looking forward to the years to come – certain that time would heal all wounds between them before his own time ran out.  
  
Whenever his thoughts swam as they now did, he was used to Elrond reflexively pushing him a wave of support and encouragement. He did not realize how second nature his bond with his twin had been until it was gone - for he had never particularly excelled in the mental arts, and if he had something to say he much rather preferred saying so out loud. He had never been able to communicate mind to mind with Maglor and Maedhros, or even Círdan and Gil-galad, unless it was a time of great duress. He had only ever been able to use that ability with Elrond, and now that their bond of souls was gone he felt strangely alone in his own mind. He felt as if he were missing a limb; feeling the phantom shadow it left behind whenever he reflexively went to use it. Such an absence was a chasm in his spirit where once there was only warmth and light.  
  
His thoughts were as a maelstrom, and he could not get them to quiet.  
  
“You look lost in your mind,” came a warm, deep voice from behind him. Elros glanced over his shoulder to see Manwë's herald approaching him from across the gangway.  
  
“The sea tends to bring such musings upon the unwary,” Elros replied. “I am simply another one of her innumerable victims.”  
  
His words made a small smile touch the mouth of the Maia. While Eönwë wore the form of a man – tall and strong, with ropes of muscle rippling across his body as befitted a master of arms – he was anything but. Even without his elven senses Elros could _feel_ the sense of otherness rolling from his spirit. That, along with the celestial beauty of his face and form clearly marked him as one of the divine. Now he wore his golden-red hair back in a simple queue, rather than the ornate braids he had worn for war. Over his chest he wore a hauberk of glittering silver-gold rings, matching the silver vambraces on his forearms - each etched by Aulë himself to give the illusion birds in flight, rather than full battle armor. His hair seemed to give off the impression of feathers near the ends, and upon seeing so, Elros remembered the sight of him with his great golden wings stretching from his back as he meted out death and destruction on Morgoth's forces from above. Even now the memory was an awe-inspiring image.  
  
While the Valar did not have children in the sense that flesh and blooded beings did, Eönwë was the firstborn of the Maiar, created from the might of both Manwë and Varda so much so that he was commonly referred to as their son – the heir to heaven and the only begotten of the stars. Even now, in simple settings, Elros could not quite forget the inhuman might of the other man, no matter that Eönwë had spent the last few years teaching the sons of Men the wisdom of the West, preparing them for their reward.  
  
Now, the realization of their goals was upon them, and in two day's time they would see a great land rising from the sea. At the thought, Elros tightened his grip upon the railing until his knuckles turned white.  
  
The horizon held too many of his thoughts. He glanced up at the stars, but could see none of them over the light of Gil-estel in the sky, burning out a path for them to follow in the heavens. He caught sight of his father's star, and then looked away, unsure of where he wished to settle his eyes. He busied himself with staring at the grain of the wood underneath his palms, feeling the sway of the ship roll through him as he had not since he was a green sailor.  
  
Eönwë followed his gaze. He was silent as he came to stand beside him, crossing his forearms lazily over the railing, ever easy with his standing.  
  
“I have never told you, but I was the first one to encounter your father in Aman. It was my great honor to present him to my lord, and watch the events of the future as they were set into motion.”  
  
Elros blinked. Eönwë said _father_ and all he could think of was the unearthly light of the second Silmaril, illuminating the expression of despair on Maedhros' face when he realized that he could hold the jewel not. Elros thought of _endings_ and _fire_ , and -  
  
He swallowed, for the few years that had passed had still not allowed that wound to heal. It was still raw against his spirit, and no amount of listening at the seashore for the song _he knew_ was there could ever make it right.  
  
Nonetheless, he managed a polite, “Oh,” in reply. He would even consider Gil-galad and Círdan more of a fatherly presence in his life; with Gil-galad's patient care when he was nothing but _hurt_ and _anger_ , and wise old Círdan setting his path towards the sea . . .  
  
Eönwë continued to stare above, the fondness in his gaze the same for looking on an old friend. “It is a hard, strange path life has steered Eärendil down. Hard and strange indeed.”  
  
“No more so than most in this land.” Though he had long thought himself to have healed, a note of bitterness entered his voice. In the silence that followed he automatically listened for a song on the waves, a voice singing proud where his ruined hands could no longer work the strings of a harp.  
  
“Do you consider yours so?” Eönwë asked, genuinely curious.  
  
Elros thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Strange, perhaps,” he answered. “There have been many pains in my life, but many blessings too.” Experiences and bonds he would not have if his life had gone 'easier'. “I . . . I do not remember my father.” The word felt awkward on his tongue, for while he bore Eärendil's blood, he had always felt as far away from him as the sea was from the stars. “I could never _feel_ him in my soul as I could feel my mother. Even before Sirion fell I had convinced myself that he did not exist. It was easier than thinking that he wanted no part of our lives.”  
  
His jaw set at his words, not realizing how much they still stung until speaking them aloud. He looked up from his hands, and found that Eönwë was staring at him. He felt small underneath the Maia's gaze, small and childish. “It is true,” he said slowly, “that if Eärendil would have chosen a different path, then he would have kept his family together. And yet, for how long? For ten years? For a hundred years? How long would it have taken Melkor to push through the last remaining of Endórë's defenses before making his conquest of the land complete? Would your family have survived the Shadow then?”  
  
Elros' temper hardened at the words. He felt his anger spark. “The Noldor bore their curse for leaving the hallowed shores of the West against the wishes of the Powers,” he could not keep his voice from darkening. “But what of the Sindar? What of the rest of the Unwilling who never finished the March? What of the Dwarves . . . or Men . . . or every _bird_ and _fish_ and _creature_ upon the land that called Middle-earth their home? Would your lord truly have let those fall underneath Morgoth's domination? This fight was the _Valar's_ fight. It was to _them_ to chain their wayward kinsman, and if _Manwë's_ soft heart would not have let Morgoth free to work his evil so long ago, then many would have been spared, and many would never have had to experience the pains we speak of now. No, forgive me for not understanding the _necessity_ of Eärendil's sacrifice. I do not understand why it was needed; I do not understand why the Valar could reign so proudly from so far away, while we endured through so much pain and heartache here.”  
  
Eönwë was silent for a moment. Elros feared that he had perhaps stepped too far, but there was no anger in the Maia's face in reply, only sadness - as if he were a parent trying to explain the darker parts of the world to an inquisitive child. “You have young eyes, and the eyes of youth do not always see,” he finally said. “And yet, our deeds are not our own to control. Everything the Ainur do is through the will and the insights of the One, and it was through His purpose that we did not act for as long as we did. We know each loss suffered upon Arda marred, from each wailing child to each sparrow that falls from the sky - and there are none who feel that pain more acutely than my lord. Of this I can assure you.” At the very end of his words, his voice turned hard. Elros clearly heard the warning there.  
  
Elros sighed, fighting the urge he had to pinch his nose in frustration – a habit that had been schooled out of him, for a King did not show such glimpses of his more negative emotions. “I am sorry,” he spoke as if around a knife. “We have been many days at sea, and I have had too much time to become lost in my thoughts.”  
  
He had too much time to think of the flames swallowing one, and the sea another . . . of his brother, not lost to him, but now so far away . . . of Eärendil above and Númenor waiting beyond . . . of the eyes of hundreds of thousands, all looking to _him_ to lead, to never fail them as the Valar so had the lives of so many . . .  
  
He breathed in deep. He let his breath out slow.  
  
“You know bitterness,” Eönwë said gently, “But I would have you know that your father knows nothing but pride for his son. He shines his light all the more brightly over your path, for it is the only way he can touch you. He mourns that he must watch you live from the heavens, rather than sharing your life on the earth. He would give up everything . . . anything for that.”  
  
Elros swallowed, little prepared for the tempest of emotion his words seemed to turn in his soul. His breath caught in his throat, his lungs doing little to aid him in his breathing. He had not realized how much he needed to hear the words until at last they were spoken.  
  
“You knew my father?” he spoke slowly, as if trying to make sense of his words as he spoke them. His voice was a strained sound from his throat.  
  
“I know him very well,” Eönwë's gaze was soft. “And you may find that you do more so than you would first think, for you have his heart - the heart of a Man. Your choice would have been his had Elwing his wife not preferred a span of immortal days.”  
  
Elros took in a breath. The deck swayed underneath his feet, but no longer did it seem set to topple him. “Could . . . could you tell me of him?” he finally asked. “Anything?” _Everything._  
  
Eönwë looked up at the light of Gil-estel above, a smile on his face as if he could speak to him from the sea below. There was no distance between them, and for a moment, Elros wanted the same.  
  
“We are still some days from land,” Eönwë answered. “I will tell you what I know in the time we have.”  
  
Eönwë started, and Elros listened, painfully aware of the Maia's every word. As he spoke, he did not look away from the light of his father's star above, nearly certain as he was that Eärendil was staring back at him. And, as the Maia spoke, the light seemed to turn all the brighter still.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
It was a season when the cosmos wheeled in the night skies.  
  
There was a storm of comets setting the horizon alight with its dance, passing overhead in colors of silver and golden flame. While there were often times in the late summer when such phenomena graced the heavens, this year was particularly exuberant in its vivacity; so much so that sky-gazers from Lothlórien had traveled to Imladris to see the celestial drama play out from the more clear ways in the mountains.  
  
Using the excuse of joining such a number of their people as they crossed the mountains, Galadriel and Celeborn too had made the journey, eager as they were to see their granddaughter while she was still a child of few years. The years of youth were but a blink in the eyes of an elf, so quickly gone and rarely experienced in the vast ages of their lives, and as a result, the couple had only dwelt in Lothlórien when strictly necessary – keen as they were to see Arwen though every step of her childhood.  
  
The valley was happier for the company, Elrond could not help but think. The Silvan from Lothlórien sang star-songs to the night sky, some amongst their numbers remembering the eldest of days when the stars were just starting to settle themselves in their path at Varda's command. They watched the new movements in the heavens now, their voices alight for the glory blazing on above them.  
  
He sat on one of the open balconies overlooking a great fall of water and a garden of roses, enjoying the company of his wife and her parents – but while those around him looked up at the stars, he looked to the balcony beneath theirs, to where Elladan and Elrohir were naming constellations and markers in the night sky to Arwen's curious, awe-struck eyes. At ten years of age, this was her first time seeing such a celestial storm, and her gaze was wide with wonder for the sight above. Such a thing was more captivating than anything the heavens had to offer, and so, Elrond watched his children, enjoying the bond he saw when the twins patiently corrected her pronunciation and understanding, they each finding patience in schooling Arwen that they found in little else.  
  
“That is the Valacirca, the sickle of the Valar, set by Varda to remind Morgoth and his servants of their doom, no matter how long they may work their evils in Middle-earth. They are a symbol that evil shall never stand while there is still light,” Elladan pointed out, guiding her hand to pick out the seven stars above. “Although Durin saw them shining over his reflection, and immediately dubbed them as his crown – to the Dwarves they are just as sacred a constellation as they are to us.”  
  
His sons' voices turned to a quiet murmur in the back of his mind when Celebrían laughed at something her father said, and Elrond brought himself back to the conversation going on around him. That was, until -  
  
“Ada! Nana!” Arwen's voice was an indignant sound, coming closer as she ran up the twining set of stairs that separated them. The twins followed close behind – Elladan with a scowling look that battled between amusement and annoyance, and Elrohir trying to fight back a look of fond exasperation.  
  
Arwen immediately ran to her mother's side, tugging on the sleeve of her dress as she looked back to dart an accusing look at her brothers. “El' and 'Ro are telling _falsehoods_ again.” She set her chin in a stubborn look, her brow darkening impressively for one so young.  
  
Celebrían raised a silver brow in question, while Galadriel and Celeborn fought back smiles, not wanting Arwen to think she was being laughed at for her words.  
  
“Your years are too great for you to still be teasing your sister so,” Celebrían addressed her sons, for often times that was the heart of the matter.  
  
“But we were not!” Elladan protested, sounding more Arwen's age than his century of years.  
  
“At least, not this time,” Elrohir added.  
  
“Just because you do not believe it - ” Elladan knelt down to tug on one of Arwen's braids.  
  
“ - does not make it anything less than the truth,” Elrohir tugged on another.  
  
Arwen narrowed her eyes, peering very closely at her brothers' faces so as to search for a trick. “You are not jesting?” she asked, sounding honestly perplexed.  
  
Elladan was eye to eye with her for kneeling upon the ground. With the solemnity of a queen, she reached out to clasp his face in her small hands, looking very closely at his eyes.  
  
“I do not jest, little one,” Elladan answered, reaching up to cover her hands with his own.  
  
A moment later, Arwen nodded, satisfied. “Then, may you explain your words?” she asked gravely.  
  
Elladan darted a look at him, Elrond realized, curious now that he understood that his son was hesitant to speak where he could hear. Elrohir too was looking down, even with Arwen patiently waiting for their answer.  
  
“We were trying to explain to her that her grandfather is a star,” Elladan said after a moment, his every word carefully said. “She did not believe us.”  
  
Arwen huffed. “How can a _star_ also be a _grandfather_?” She looked at Celeborn. “ _You_ are my grandfather, and you are here before me. It is how it should be.” With a child's logic, she tried to process the world around her.  
  
“Eärendil did not have that choice,” Elladan said simply. “And, he is not _quite_ a star.”  
  
Arwen raised a brow. “I do not understand.” She looked to Elrond. “What are they trying to say?”  
  
Elrond blinked, taken aback by the subject as it was set before him. He had not spoken of Eärendil in many centuries, not since first sharing his tale with Celebrían all of those years ago. He assumed that she had told their sons, for they knew the story of Gil-estel, and yet, they never talked of their odd heritage from the heavens when he could hear. He never spoke of his father, not out of some long unhealed wound, but rather, because there was nothing to say. He reexamined the truth of that now, and found his answers little to his liking.  
  
At his side, Celebrían touched his arm, and he could feel the comforting brush of her spirit – she realizing what brought him pain even more than he consciously did, even if that wound was thousands of years old. _A healer to all but yourself_ , she whispered into his mind, and he accepted the strength she offered as he turned to his daughter, leaning forward so that he too was eye to eye with Arwen.  
  
At first, he was not quite sure how to begin his tale – for some of it she did not need to hear until she was much older. Strange, he thought, that Arwen was older than he was when Sirion burned, even though her more elven blood slowed her growth in body, if not in mind. He swallowed against his memories until he was nothing more than a parent and teacher – pushing away the thoughts and pains of a son and child.  
  
“You have been learning your histories,” he started, and when Arwen nodded her head, he continued, “You then know of the foe we faced in the First Age?”  
  
“Yes,” Arwen answered grimly. “Morgoth Bauglir.”  
  
“And to defeat this foe, we needed to entreat the help of the Valar – a difficult task, for at this time there was no path leading West. My father was the one to find the Straight Path, sailing West to beg the Valar for their aid.”  
  
Arwen blinked, processing what he said. “Why did he not take you?”  
  
“He could not,” Elrond said simply, deciding to leave the tale of the Third Kinslaying for another time. “And neither could he return to Middle-earth when his task was complete.”  
  
Arwen's eyes were very wide as he spoke. She could not comprehend such a thing – for which Elrond was glad. He had fought in more battles than he could name for more years than he liked to count so that she could know such a peace. “Then, who raised you?” Arwen asked plainly. “Who was your family?”  
  
“I never wanted for role-models, or love, for that matter. Sometimes, families come in all shapes and sizes, as strange as they may first seem,” Elrond responded after a moment, thoughts of Maglor and Maedhros still bringing a pang of their own. He grew to love Gil-galad and Círdan dearly, and even Galadriel and Celeborn had done much in shaping his youngest years to the point where he did not have the words within him to explain how grateful he was for their influences on his life.  
  
He glanced over Arwen's shoulder, and saw that Galadriel's expression was very soft when she looked at him. Her look was mirrored by Celeborn, and he bolstered himself on the feeling of pride and fondness they both pushed to him.  
  
“Then how is Eärendil now in the heavens?” Arwen asked, still thoughtful.  
  
“Varda, the Starkindler, anointed his ship to sail the heavens with the Silmaril of Lúthien at his brow,” Elrond answered, knowing she would recognize the name of her ancestress - it was a story he could scarce keep from her. “It is the light of the Silmaril you see, rather than the light of a star.”  
  
Arwen blinked. “He sails above so that he may watch over you?” she ventured, uncannily perceptive for her age. “He could not come home, and so, he comes as close as he can.” Her voice was thick with sadness and empathy, and Elrond swallowed.  
  
“Perhaps,” he answered. “We do not know the precise reasons for Eärendil's flight, but that is what I like to think.”  
  
“It must be very lonely,” Arwen whispered, “to be up in the sky, all alone. Only _watching_ . . .”  
  
“I have never thought about it that way,” Elrond admitted, glancing up at the turbulent sky above. Yes . . . lonely and beautiful both. A blessing and a curse. He swallowed around the thick feeling that had bloomed in his throat.  
  
Arwen looked at him, and without saying anything more she stepped forward and wrapped her small arms around his shoulders in a clumsy hug, offering what comfort she could to the turmoil she could feel emanating from him, no matter how well he thought to hide it. She kissed his cheek and then stepped back, looking at him in heartfelt relief as she said, “I am glad that you do not have to leave us as he did. I do not know what I would do without you.” Her eyes were wet and shining, clearly imagining how she would feel in his place.  
  
Not wanting her to feel grief for a hurt ages past, he passed feelings of love and comfort to his daughter, smiling when he felt her clumsily trying to do the same in return. “Nothing in this world would be able to tear me from you,” he made his vow, and Arwen smiled, relief encroaching on the corners of her gaze. "Nothing."  
  
A moment passed, and then Galadriel stood. Breaking through the weight of the last few minutes, she said, “Aduial is ready to begin capturing the light from this eve.” She looked at Arwen. “Would you like to see how he accomplishes his craft, young one?”  
  
Arwen blinked away her tears. “Would you mind?” she looked at her father, wanting to accompany her grandmother but unwilling to leave him.  
  
Elrond smiled, and wiped a wet cheek for her. “Go and enjoy,” he said. “It is a privilege to see Aduial at his craft. And,” he pitched his voice conspiratorially, “he is weak when it comes to a pretty smile and a charming presence. Ask, and he may even bottle one of the stars for you this eve.”  
  
Arwen's eyes sparkled at the thought, and, her grief forgotten, she turned to follow her grandparents. Elladan and Elrohir lingered a moment before they too turned to follow – Aduial and his skills ever a mark of fascination for them since their youngest years.  
  
Elrond watched them go, his heart full for the shape of his family. He breathed in deep, concentrating on that warmth, even as a slim pair of arms wrapped around him. Celebrían pillowed her head against his shoulder, and he leaned into her embrace, accepting the comfort she offered even before realizing the need for it.  
  
“Are you well?” she asked after a moment. Concern colored her voice.  
  
“I am not glass,” he assured her. “I will not break for sake of a memory.”  
  
“You have not spoken of Eärendil in many years,” she pointed out, ever insightful.  
  
He shrugged. “Not out of a wish _not_ to speak of him,” he said. “Only for a lack of things to say.”  
  
She drew back enough to meet his eyes. Her look was piercing and wise, and after a moment he could not hold it. “At least,” he amended. “That is what I have long thought.”  
  
She was silent, waiting for what more he had to say. Her warmth held him as they sky did the stars, and he garnered himself on it. “I have never thought about it as Arwen put it,” he said after a moment, shamed for his lack of insight and perception - things he normally prided himself on. “It is indeed a lonely existence that Eärendil leads, to glimpse little more than stolen moments, and yet he gladly takes what little he may. I never understood my mother's choice until I was entrusted with Vilya,” for the protection of the Ring he wore, he would have to be prepared to give up even that which was dearest to him. The weight of such a responsibility had nearly ruined his courtship with Celebrían before it even began. She followed his thoughts in his mind, and her arms tightened around him. “And yet . . . Eärendil . . . I never knew him but for his absence, and now, to think about it in any other way is rather daunting.”  
  
“Eärendil's light has always shined brightest over Imladris,” Celebrían whispered. “Even that my mother has noted.”  
  
“I never let myself notice,” Elrond acknowledged, and the honesty of that statement was a pain of its own.  
  
To have an opinion of four thousand years turned aside by the insights of a child was humbling, but Elrond was wise enough to accept such corrections and learn from them. He drew in a deep breath, and looked up at the sky above. This time, instead of looking at the glory of the cosmos as it wheeled, he found Earendil's star. He stared, imagining that he could meet his father's eyes even with such a distance between them.  
  
Though he had never been able to feel his father in his soul – not the way he had been able to feel Elwing before the West voided that bond, or even the way he had grown in love with each of his foster-fathers - he now focused on that spark deep inside of his soul. It slumbered, untouched until now, but like blowing on an ember to give it flame, he awakened that bond. He concentrated, exerting the considerable power of his fëa into coaxing that presence into awareness. He focused . . .  
  
He could feel Eärendil's surprise when he was able to touch his consciousness from across the distance. He could feel his surprise – but also grief, affection, love – all mingling until Elrond was not sure which were his own feelings and which were his father's. The connection was brief, lasting but a moment before the distance separating them snapped the cord. Yet, it was enough. Elrond breathed in deep, and exhaled with the last of his bitterness and hurt.  
  
In response, the light of Gil-estel flickered above, greater than even the storm in the heavens.


	49. "third of her name"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn & Arwen || Prompt: _Thrice_ , Free-write
> 
> This is another Fourth Age vignette, but I think we could use something a little more lighthearted when compared to the last few updates. ;)

Though his years were many and stood to stretch on even longer still, there were moments amongst his memories that stood out as lights against the timeline of his days. Centuries had passed, and yet Celeborn vividly remembered the birth of his daughter. Even to this day, he could clearly recall the feel of her in his arms and the tug on his spirit as she found her place within his soul. He could remember the first time he held his grandsons; two at once, and marveled at the wide grey eyes that smiled up at him. Arwen's birth had been a bright spot of joy upon his years, and her solemn gaze had captured him as utterly as the moon did the tides.  
  
Though his feet were connected to the land and his soul was bound to the trees of Ennor, he could feel each year the sea separated he from his wife. It was as if there was a cord between them, stretched until fit to snap. While he did not particularly yearn for the hallowed lands of Valinor, and knew that he would find contentment in the forests of Middle-earth until the reforging of the world, he had bound himself to her long ago, and his vows had not been contingent on one place or another. Galadriel had endured many years in Ennor while her heart tugged her home, and she stayed until she could do so no longer. While he had promised to follow her across the sea, he refused to find the Straight Road into the West until his granddaughter drew her last mortal breath. Yet . . . he had not realized how acutely he would feel that time as it passed. He felt as if he was of mortal blood, conscious of each year and counting even the days as they passed. He felt as a tree flayed in a storm, his roots not quite as deep as he once thought them to be.  
  
And yet, it was moments like these that made that counting stand still. These were the moments that filled him with new purpose – with meaning for his lingering in Ennor. Amongst all life, birth was sacred and new souls cherished. And yet, children were a marvel to the Firstborn in a slightly different way, for thousands of years could pass without a new member of a family, and as a result each birth was taken for the blessing it was – a rare and joyful time for a race of immortal days.  
  
Arwen bore Aragorn a son nearly a year after their marriage, and her daughter Amdiriel followed soon after. Ten years later, their second daughter came as a surprise to the royal couple. Arwen had birthed her last child over the mountains, in Imladris while visiting her brothers, and Celeborn had to wait for the family to return to Gondor before journeying to welcome the newest member of his line.  
  
He had been able to feel the spirit of his great-granddaughter from his first moment entering the White City. It flickered as a golden light against his senses, both curious for his probe and hesitantly trying to seek him in return. He had blinked for the awareness of the child, already intrigued for the girl Arwen had born.  
  
In the palace, he was greeted first by Aragorn, who welcomed him formally before allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace. Celeborn had counted the man as his grandson even before his marriage to Arwen, beloved as he was from the long line of Dúnedain who grew to manhood in Elrond's halls. Behind Aragorn, in the sitting room outside of Arwen's chambers, Glorfindel was regaling Aragorn's eldest children with tales from Gondolin in the First Age – a story Celeborn was no doubt going to have to correct later, he thought with some amusement. Sitting next to Eldarion with her own son, and just as eager as the children was the Lady Éowyn, who would never pass up a chance to hear the half Vanya's tales. Glorfindel held a strange fascination for the shield-maiden upon finding out that she was the one to break his prophesy, and she had been smitten with the golden warrior in return. Now a strong friendship and understanding existed between them, no matter the length of years that separated them.  
  
Yet, he was not kept long with pleasantries before Aragorn waved him away, saying that there would be time to catch up later. For now, there was someone waiting to meet him.  
  
Upon entering Arwen's rooms, he could feel a sultry breeze drift in from the open windows, dancing through the softly fluttering drapes with the scent of sun-warmed stone and blooming summer flowers. Arwen was sitting with her daughter on the balcony, rocking the tiny babe and humming underneath her breath – a lullaby that he remembered Galadriel singing to their own daughter, a cradle-song from across the sea. For a moment he stood just watching them, his heart full in his chest.  
  
He found it hard to move from his stillness, that was, until he saw the pale gold crowning the girl that Arwen held. He blinked, curious, for he had assumed that this child would be born as dark of hair as her parents and siblings. And yet, he reasoned, Aragorn's own mother had dark blonde hair. It could be Hador's blood, or even the Vanya in the child coming to the fro. It was not too curious a thing.  
  
“I come bearing gifts,” he said as he approached – for the remaining elves of Lórien, few as they were, remembered their lady and dearly cherished her. Even Thranduil had added his own blessings and gifts from Eryn Lasgalen (muttering only to Celeborn his frustration with Legolas not settling down and giving him a grandchild or two to spoil), a fondness in his doing so – for he too remembered Arwen as a tiny child in her mother's arms, and wished her well.  
  
Arwen looked up, and the soft smile upon her face was enough to rival even the beauty of the summer sunset beyond. “You are a gift all yourself,” she said warmly in reply. She made to stand, but he was faster than her, and held a gentle hand upon her shoulder, keeping her in place. The return trip home was long and hard on both mother and child, he understood, and there was no reason for her to stand on ceremony now.  
  
“You need not stand for me,” he said, amused by the stubborn furrow to her brow – a look that was more Galadriel than anything else.  
  
“I am not glass to be so carefully handled,” Arwen returned, but she did not attempt to stand again. “And it is not I who wished to do so. Your granddaughter is restless.” Arwen's voice turned curiously as the baby squirmed in her hold, trying to turn herself around to see her visitor. “I believe that she felt you coming, as strange as that may sound. And yet, it is a most unusual daughter I have born.”  
  
Curious, Celeborn looked at the girl. The baby was carefully wrapped in a blue blanket, upon which the White Tree was elegantly stitched with painstaking detail. He accepted the girl when Arwen offered her to his hold, and he immediately understood what she had tried to say. Already the baby turned impossibly blue eyes on him, unerringly aware of his presence and solemn in face for her short span of life. Her fëa was already strong and pulsing within her tiny body, a flame all its own, golden and broad in might. While still mortal, there was fey blood aplenty in the daughter Arwen bore, and the cast of her spirit would be great indeed in the days to come.  
  
There was something heartbreakingly familiar about her eyes . . . her golden hair . . . She bore much of Galadriel's might within her, Celeborn could not help but think. Whatever of his wife's blood that had been sleeping in Celebrían and Arwen had come to the fro now, and the resemblance caused a bittersweet feeling to rise in him, both glad as he was for the continuation of her legacy, and grieved that she was not there to see it.  
  
“Aranes,” Arwen whispered, watching him hold her daughter with a great emotion in her eyes. “We have named her Aranes, for she shall be the wisdom and foresight behind her brother's throne when Eldarion comes to rule. The blood of the Elves runs strong in her, and she will live years longer than her siblings. She will live, and counsel the generations to come as a wise woman and healer both. This, even I have seen.”  
  
Aranes' eyes were blue and large, and so very familiar to him. He swallowed at the name, unable to form his thoughts for a moment. It had been years since his wife was known by Artanis, and yet, had she accepted a Sindarin name rather than the name he had bestowed upon her, Aranes she would have been. It was a great honor his granddaughter paid he and his wife . . . a great honor indeed.  
  
“I never expected to be so twice blessed,” he said, emotion thick in his throat. “You honor us, child.”  
  
He had felt joy and humbled gratitude when his daughter chose Arwen's name for her; for Arwen's name too translated the same as Artanis', they each meaning _noble maiden_ , no matter the tongue they were given in.  
  
_“You both have meant so much to both my husband and I. Beyond my wish to honor my mother, it is a fitting title,”_ Celebrían had simply said, looking down at the bundle in her arms. _“She bears the nobility of a great many lines in her blood, and someday . . .”_ she had blinked then, as she often did when a whisper of premonition touched upon her. The whispers never took full shape, and frustrated, she rarely tried to deign the secrets her foresight whispered. Only now, with Arwen carrying the Houses of Men and Elves full circle with her marriage to Aragorn, did the words – did the _name_ \- carry the weight of its full meaning.  
  
Now, his only regret was that his wife was not here to greet her namesake. Celeborn reached out to sooth away the golden fuzz of the baby's hair, and allowed his finger to be seized by Aranes' curious hand. Warmth bloomed in his heart as he once again felt determination fill him, endeavoring to remember all that he could to share with those who could no longer be here.  
  
For a moment, Arwen did not look at him or at her daughter. Instead, she looked beyond the window, to where the western horizon was turning red with the day's end. She blinked, lost in her thoughts, before coming back to herself. “Though I grieve that you are not yet where you should be, a part of me is glad that here you remain. I wish . . . I hope that you will remember these moments . . . remember and someday share them.” She swallowed, emotion thick in her voice. “My father . . . my mother . . . my grandmother . . .” her voice failed her, and her eyes were shining. "I wish . . ."  
  
“I shall remember,” Celeborn made his vow aloud where before it had been silent. “I will remember, and share with them all.” It was not enough, he knew, and it never would be. And yet, it was still a balm to a great wound in the smallest of ways.  
  
“I thank you,” she finally said. “My words are not enough to explain how much they mean to me . . . but, I thank you.” Arwen took in a deep breath, fortifying herself. Then her moment of grief passed, and she was nothing more than a proud mother sharing her daughter with another. Her eyes shone when she looked on her child, but there was not only mourning in her gaze.  
  
“Aranes,” Celeborn tried the name out, feeling it leave his mouth with a rightness in shape. Galadriel had never quite fit into the name, and gladly had she cast it aside for another upon discovering the beauties of shadowed Ennor. And yet, the girl he held . . . he looked, down, and the child blinked her big blue eyes at him. Instantly, something within him was stolen. “Thrice your name has been given, and each time you have absconded with my heart with little more than a glance. I welcome you into both the House of Elwë and the House of Finwë, for there is no one left upon these shores who may speak for that part of your line. I welcome you, and pray that you remember the powers in your blood. May you endeavor to use the grace and wisdom of your heritage to shine a light all the brighter on the rule of your kin. You, young one, shall be a light in dark places when the world is absent the wisdom of the elves. Perhaps, through your children's children, we will be remembered, and something of our ways will endure.”  
  
He kissed the baby's forehead, already feeling as the child settled herself deep within her soul. Though she was too young to understand his words, a part of her could pick up abstract things – hope and love and pride – and the memory would remain with her even without her consciously being able to recall its exact shape.  
  
He breathed in deep, and then exhaled, allowing the moment to pass. Then he was nothing more than a fond grandparent holding a grandchild with love and adoration already thick and consuming within him.  
  
“You have made me proud many times over in your life,” he said to Arwen as he passed her daughter back – Aranes already blinking back sleep, drowsy and content after the subtle exchange of power. “Now you have done so once again. I speak for more than just myself when I say that you are dearly loved, you and _all_ of yours.”  
  
Arwen could only nod at his words, her eyes once again full with feeling as she looked to the west. No more words were needed as he sat down next to her, content with the silence that fell between them. Arwen rocked her daughter, once again humming her cradle-song as Aranes succumbed to sleep.  
  
Together they sat in silence, each looking to the West, and Celeborn let himself remember for those who waited to hear.


	50. "the eye of the beholder"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil/Canonical Wife || Prompt: _Lovely_ , Free-write
> 
> This chapter has quite a bit of head-canon as to where Legolas' mother could have came from - which I added more notes on at the end, if you are interested. It also uses Jackson!canon with Thranduil's scars, and quite a bit more head-canon as for some of the events of the War of Wrath, so you have been warned.
> 
> Also, I have to give a **WARNING** , for a rather graphic description of burns, and not quite underage content. Everyone is of age here, but there was some attraction going on before that, and if that squicks you, you may not like this. (Although, really, it's _different_ for Elves, that said. :p)

**Lovely**  
  
At first, Thranduil was only aware that he breathed. And yet, he welcomed the realization not.  
  
The left side of his face burned with an unholy fervor, throbbing with an agony greater than that which had initially birthed the wound. Then his body had mercifully fallen unconscious after mere moments, overwhelmed from the sensations wracking his body; now he endured, biting his teeth and bearing through the red, throbbing pain that existed in place of flesh and bone. Each breath moved the bandages covering his face, scraping them across his skin with a near unbearable agony. Though they were intended to heal and bind his ruined flesh together, their soft touch was instead as embers sparking against his skin. After enduring wounds uncounted in battles throughout his centuries, nothing could compare to the horror that was dragon fire and its scourge. _Nothing_.  
  
Though the healers of Ennor had grown skilled at treating burn victims throughout the long years of the war – which, even with their victory, was tentatively being dubbed the War of Wrath by the weary soldiers who survived – his face presented them with a conundrum. There was so much sensitive skin and tissue that stood ruined, and not one of his senses had gone unaffected from the flames. His sight, his hearing, his sense of smell and taste; each laid damaged. Dragon-fire was no mere fire, burning with a vigor to match the inferno at the heart of the earth, so unlike any natural flame that they could call into being with their arts. No matter what the healers did, something would have to be sacrificed, and that, Oropher was simply not willing to do.  
  
Even with one ear, Thranduil could hear as his father hissed in low tones at the healers, berating them for their incompetence. He could feel as bandages were moved and replaced, as songs were sung and even the most senior amongst their arts tried to coax his body to heal with the light of their own fëar. None could quite grasp the success they strove for, and Oropher's temper grew all the worse with each passing failure, prickling against his skin to match the throbbing from his wounds.  
  
Time passed, though he knew not how long, and then Gil-galad himself offered up a solution - suggesting that his former ward try his hand at healing him. Already the half-elf was being groomed as the High-king's successor, and for his few years, Elrond's deeds during the war as both a healer and a warrior had earned him a growing respect from those on all sides of the field.  
  
Even so, Oropher was not impressed. “I will not place my son's health in the hands of an untrained child,” his words were scathing in reply to the Noldor King's suggestion, even with Elrond standing patient and serene by Gil-galad's side.  
  
“He is not untrained, and he is not a child,” Gil-galad calmly answered, long used to his sire's temper. If anything, Gil-galad's infinite patience and unwillingness to rise to any of the Sindar prince's barbs only annoyed Oropher further.  
  
“He has not even seen a century of years,” Oropher's voice was scornful in reply. “Perhaps we have differing views over what constitutes as _maturity_.” His words were a barely concealed barb, and Thranduil could imagine the way Gil-galad – a young king himself – tensed at them.  
  
But the Noldo did not allow Oropher's words to rile him. “And yet, in his few years, Elrond's talents have developed past what healers of centuries are able to claim. His control over his abilities has only blossomed since making his Choice. He is the best chance your son has if you wish to completely reverse the damage done.”  
  
_The Choice_ , Thranduil thought. It had become common gossip amongst all the decision the Peredhil made – one brother throwing his ilk with Men while the other chose the immortality of the Elves. Thranduil tensed, not wanting his face to be the project Gil-galad set his ward on to distract him from the grief of his sundering from his twin.  
  
Oropher was silent for a moment, clearly torn. Thranduil could feel an uncomfortable, itching sensation run up and down his skin, one that always meant that his father's eyes were upon him. He did not say yes or no in reply, but Thranduil could feel one presence leave and another approach before cool hands ghosted over the bandages to examine the ruin of his face. Instinctively he tensed, expecting pain even from a well meaning hand. Yet, he felt as a blue touch cradled him, soothing the pain from his burns being exposed to the air and reversing the agony that seeped into his bones with even the smallest of motions. For a moment, he could breathe without pain, which was more than he had been able to do in days.  
  
“I can ensure that he will be able to see once more. I can save his vision without sacrificing his other senses,” Elrond said after a moment. His words were muttered, absorbed as he was in his observations over taking the time to speak to those with him.  
  
“Yes, but what of the rest . . .” Thranduil could imagine Oropher waving a vague hand.  
  
“The damage is too extensive,” Elrond answered frankly. “The scars will always remain, no matter what I do. But I can make sure that he keeps the whole of his senses, and ensure that the scars do not pain him in the years to come.”  
  
“Then you are useless to me,” Oropher responded scathingly. “His face . . . it is not a face, it is a mess of tissue and bone, and I will not force him to spend the rest of eternity with such a visage.”  
  
“But he will live, and he will live comfortably,” for the first, temper sparked in the youth before them. “You may find a healer better versed in burns than I, and save his countenance. But you run out of time to save the eye and his sight – and I can do that here and now.”  
  
“Glamours and enchantments can be provided later,” Gil-galad said, his voice pitched low and persuasively. “Let that be your son's decision, though.”  
  
At that moment, he did not care if he bore the face of a _dwarf_ in the end, just as long as the burning sensation stopped . . . Later, he knew that he would not feel so, but in that moment nothing mattered but relief from the pain.  
  
_And relief you shall find_ , a gentle voice sounded into his thoughts. Oropher was still going on, but Elrond had tuned him out. Instead he reached out to touch his mind with a soft blue presence. Thranduil blinked, taken aback by the _weight_ of spirit circling his own, unsure of how the soul before him was not completely elven.  
  
He felt a flicker of amusement from the other man, and then the blue spirit _pushed_ , and the comforting blackness of oblivion rose to embrace him.  
  
It took many days of such sessions with the Peredhel, but he was eventually able to close his wounds and convince his scared flesh to scab over in blessed numbness. His hearing was restored in both ears, and the scared flesh over his left ear even healed completely in the process. His sight, his sense of smell and taste, all returned. He was as functional as he was before the war, so much so that even Oropher had nothing to say for the youth's progress. Yet, Thranduil noted, he did not particularly sing his praises, either.  
  
_I can feel his gratitude_ , Elrond's presence was still at the forefront of his mind. _It is enough._  
  
_Not nearly, and yet, I thank you . . . I am in your debt._ Proud as he was to admit it, indebted he was, and he would see that debt paid.  
  
_Some are made to heal, and so we heal,_ Elrond responded simply, brushing aside his thoughts as if they were the deconstructed reasonings of a child _. It is an instinct within us all to protect, which you have learned more so than most._  
  
Thranduil should not have been surprised that the healer was able to see the circumstances leading to his near fatal encounter with the dragon. Even still, the knowledge sat awkwardly within him. He had not allowed himself to think much about the end of the battle himself, as if by doing so, he could keep it from his mind completely.  
  
At the beginning of the war, the Maiar of Aulë who had accompanied Eönwë from Valinor had shown crafted black arrows that could pierce the diamond like scale of dragon skin. The best of their archers – primarily Sindarin - had been giving the arrows, and stationed on the cliffs – where they could fire on the great wyrms in the water attacking Círdan's ships, and into the melee on the shore, where Morgoth sent his beasts of fire and air. Overhead, leading their efforts against the dragons had been the Blessed Mariner himself, flying alongside the Great Eagles in the sky. He remembered Eärendil as a child, sailing his small skiff in the surf and trying to coax Elwing to the water. Now, to see him in his enchanted ship, bathed in holy light as he battled the mighty Black Dragon himself . . . it was awe inspiring to watch, and it only bolstered the efforts of those fighting below as Ancalagon was pushed further and further back towards Thangorodrim.  
  
Of course, the archers became an obvious target for Morgoth's horde with their black arrows finding their targets over and over again. Thranduil and his unit of Sindarin swordsmen had been charged with both protecting the archers from Orc blades and retrieving what arrows they could from the fighting below. Such a thing was easier said than done with the Orcs trying to beat them to the arrows, and the poisonous blood of the felled wyrms filling the air with an unholy miasma, toxic and burning to the breath.  
  
While most of the winged beasts kept to the air, there were numerous snake-like monsters that slithered on the ground, with terrible claws and small wings that helped them vault over heads and find their prey with unrelenting accuracy. Fire, fumes, poison; all were equipped with one evil or another, and they took their pound of flesh from the Sindarin archers, no matter the measures they took to offer their brethren protection.  
  
If he was honest with himself, which hindsight forced him to be, one archer in particular caught his eye more often than not. Calelassel Laeorniel was young; very young. She had been born on the Isle of Balar, shortly after the Third Kinslaying, while her brother Laegalad was born some decades ago in Sirion. Laeorn, one of Oropher's lords, was her father and the Lady Gledhril of Gondolin was her mother. While the couple had fallen midway through the war from a scourge of dragon-fire on the coastline, their children had lived. For his scant century of years, Laegalad already held a respected place on Oropher's council, and during the war he had led a unit of swordsmen just to the south of Thranduil's. Yet, for all of his efforts, Laegalad had been able to do but little in keeping his sister from joining active combat – as perhaps their father would have. For the fact remained that their numbers were few when compared to the black might they faced, and for being not even a half a century in age, Calelassel's aim was already unerring accurate. She was a true child of war, having known her girlhood during the earliest days of their final campaign against Morgoth, and the fire in her belly to end the Dark Vala's evil ways was as fierce as those who had spent centuries underneath his domination.  
  
Thranduil could admit to being taken with the woman. When knowing her but little, he had sided with her when she sued for joining the archers on the front line – where many others were understandably uneasy for her youth and relative inexperience where they had already lost so many of their kind. On the front lines he had deepened his acquaintance with her until he would call her both a confidant and friend. He was, however, wise enough to keep his interest there and only there. While elvish ages worked in odd ways – and someday, over a thousand years between a couple would mean next to nothing – it was, however, unseemly to develop an attraction to one who had not yet passed a hundred years when he himself had seen _many_ hundreds of years. He was an elf; he was patient, and he could wait. He had, after all, waited this long to begin with.  
  
Even so, he found himself drawn to her around the evening fires. Ever was she the one who found him in those rare, quite moments between skirmishes, and she rode by his side whenever they marched to the next field of battle. For all of her unmovable composure and the serene face she tried to project to appear beyond her years, her humor was wry and cutting when stirred, and her mind was as sharp as her aim. He enjoyed speaking with her, and as the years passed and the battles grew all the more frenzied as they coaxed Morgoth to desperation at the doors of Angband itself, his fascination with her grew.  
  
For all of their years, his kind could wait for centuries to find a suitable mate, finding little interest in the opposite sex until their souls met their match and they were bound in kind. He had a few dalliances to his name while looking for that match and thinking to find love with youth's naivety, but none ever stuck with him as she had with simply a glance. Once, he had even fancied himself in love with Lúthien herself - really, what man in Doriath hadn't? - but, as with most, a healthy fear of her father had squashed that attraction rather quickly. And yet, even that fascination proved to be trifle in the face of the _rightness_ of spirit he knew now; his fëa drawn to hers and aligning with its match as the One had intended.  
  
Even so, he remained silent on his feelings. Calelassel only reached the year of her majority midway through the events of the war, and even if he wished to, he had not been at liberty to speak to her of such things. By the letter of the law, he was then free to court her, but wisdom still bid that he wait until she further grew into herself. He had contented himself with staying as close to her as he could without implying that he wanted anything more, and it was that closeness that had him at her side when Morgoth's last, desperate wave had fallen upon them on the final day of battle.  
  
Above them all, Ancalagon thrashed in the sky, and the hundreds of lesser dragons had rallied for the plight of their lord, falling left and right as their kind was nearly extinguished then and there. With a mad insanity for their approaching extinction, they had launched such a wave at the archers - against which they had grimly defended themselves. And yet, it had only taken _one_ fledgling wyrm to break through, and in a moment of vulnerability . . .  
  
He had only seen the whites of her eyes as she realized her error in letting the winged beast too close, for her weapons were long ranged, and she was nearly defenseless in close quarters against a dragon's might. The red beast had seemingly smiled with its scaled mouth, showing crooked fangs and a vaporous yellow breath that _sparked_ , and -  
  
He had not thought, he had simply acted, taking one of the black tipped arrows from the quiver of the archer closest to him, and charging . . . He had found the beast's heart, but the blow had cost him his face as dragon fire bathed him in an unholy embrace. He would have stayed there, crippled underneath the dying wyrm's onslaught had not a Maia named Olórin – one of Eönwë's lieutenants, grey and silver as he directed them against the dragon horde – pulled him away from the fountain of flames, and further back to safety. He dimly remembered Calelassel trying to aid the Maia before he shrugged her away, moving better on his own with the melee still churning around them. That final glimpse of her face - creased in horror and fear - was the last Thranduil had seen of her, and weeks had since passed.  
  
Weeks . . . and his wounds were nearly as healed as they would ever be. While working on his healing, Elrond had discovered a way for him to change a note in the song of his fëa to alter the appearance of his hröa – much as the Maiar did when they chose which body of flesh they wished to present to those of blood and bone. It would take years – maybe even centuries – for the song to permanently alter without his conscious effort, and for now he had to concentrate a good deal of his energy into presenting the illusion of a whole face, unbloodied and unmarred. It was a wearying battle, and he taxed himself with his efforts – ignoring Elrond's counsel to approach the illusion in short intervals, allowing his body to adjust until it could handle such a channeling of his power without his consciously having to do so.  
  
And yet, with a face half dead and half alive, his determination to grasp this new talent was fierce indeed. He exhausted himself with his efforts, and he left the sick rooms but little in the days following. He was too tired to even protest the rest, lingering pain and frustration all mingling together to pull him down even more so than the weariness engulfing him. True sleep was difficult for him, for he could not hold onto the enchantments governing his appearance while he slept, and he did not like to present his scared visage to anyone – not even Elrond with his understanding eyes, and especially not to his father, who looked at him as if everything about him altered along with his appearance.  
  
He turned away visitors as a whole, not wanting to see anyone until he had a grasp over his illusions. One day, Elrond was brave enough – or perhaps cross enough with his stubbornness – to mention Calelassel's constant visiting, but Thranduil coldly brushed him aside, his heart hammering in his chest at the idea of _her_ , of all people, seeing him like this. No, he thought, it was best to stay away until he had a grasp on this.  
  
Even for his avoiding anyone and everyone, she still managed to find her way to him. After nearly a month of staying in the healer's chambers, she sought him out, slipping past the attendants with shadow cloaking her, her soft step and determination allowing her to pass unseen in the night.  
  
He was not sleeping, not truly, but he was trying to rest when he was aware of a weight joining his on the bed. A slight form sat on his right, leaning over so that she could better peer at his face. _His face_ , which at that moment presented the illusion of health and perfection.  
  
“You are healed,” Calelassel's voice was filled with surprise. It echoed in the room, drawing him from his doze with a start as his senses sharpened and his heartbeat immediately picked up pace – as if he were about to engage a foe rather than an unarmed woman with concern in her eyes. “You are healed,” she whispered, “and yet . . . you feel pain. I do not understand.”  
  
For a moment he merely blinked at her, staring. “This,” he said slowly, his voice dry to his use, “is simply proof that my father can vex others to where it only inspires them to do more than they first thought themselves capable of.”  
  
She looked at him oddly, not understanding what he said, and for a moment he did not want to explain. And yet, perhaps . . . the quicker he was able to explain, the quicker he could then ask her to leave. “The damage is healed near as well as it ever will be. Scars remain, but I am . . . working to conceal them.”  
  
A moment passed. The silence stretched. “You have been avoiding me,” she said in a soft voice. She waited for him to speak, to explain, but he would not.  
  
“I have avoided all,” he gave what could pass as a shrug. “I did not differentiate you from any other.”  
  
She blinked at him, as if _all_ and _she_ were two separate things entirely. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Where he normally gave off a cool air of indifference that kept others at arm's length from him, she had never adhered to such things as personal boundaries before. It was as if it were the most natural thing to stand so close to his side, to touch his hand or shoulder when she talked as if they were a pair already bonded. Normally, such closeness in another would only discomfort him; with her, he had taken each moment as the stolen gratifications they were. Now, he wished that she was not so close as she sat on his bedside and leaned over him. Her hair was loose and unbraided, slipping over her shoulders in a fall of harvest gold. He could see the green-blue of her eyes, even in the dark. She rested her left hand on his chest to support her position, and the weight of her palm felt like a brand to match the searing sensation that still ghosted across his face when he called it to mind. He inhaled, and found that his breath was thin.  
  
She saw his eyes narrow, and guessed the shape of his thoughts. “It is due to you that I have had to steal in like a thief in the night.”  
  
He did not answer her, not right away. Instead, he turned his head into the pillow, trying to hide the injured side of his face from her without being obvious in his motions. He closed his eyes, hoping that he projected indifference.  
  
He heard her inhale. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, unconsciously clenching with her next request. “May I see?” she asked, her voice simple and level. Only the tight press of her fingertips betrayed how much the question meant to her. “The stories paint such pictures, and I need to see . . . I need to know.”  
  
The dark hid his flinch. He turned further into the pillow.  
  
“They said that the healer was more worried about your vision than your scars . . . can you see now? Was he successful in saving that?” worry pinched her voice. Through where he was ever growingly aware of the shape of her soul, he could feel her anxiety push to the forefront of her mind.  
  
Still, he was silent. He focused everything he had on presenting a whole face, even in the shadows. If she saw . . .  
  
“Do you not trust me?” she whispered, feeling the strain of him exerting his power. There was a question in her words where she intended them strong. He could feel a tendril of her fear, of her apprehension, and he steeled himself in reply to her. He would save her the sight of him, he was determined. It was no longer a prince she had snared, but rather, something twisted and even _Orc like_ in countenance . . . no, he would spare her the sight of that.  
  
He tried to keep his thoughts cold, but they snapped and flared within him. His tenuous control over his hröa flickered, and he remembered belatedly Elrond's warnings about keeping the illusion for too long, too soon. He had not let his true face through all day, and now it was well into the night, and he was _tired_. Tired, and wounded at the heart.  
  
“I want you to leave,” he infused his voice with a wave of coldness. He knew his own look; he knew how his eyes could cut as ice, and his voice frost to match. He felt nearly fey in that moment, raw and desperate for her to leave before his control faltered, and she saw . . .  
  
“No,” Calelassel said, holding his gaze as if he instead looked at her with the eyes of a rabbit. “You do not want me to leave. You fear me, but you wish for me to stay, and you hope for me to accept you. Yet, you are too much of a coward to allow me that chance.”  
  
“I am merely weary,” he returned, his voice sharp, “and you are disturbing my rest.”  
  
“Then what else is it? Do you blame me?” she ignored him. Her eyes were hard as they studied his face. This close he could see the green flecked therein. “Do you wish that your actions that day were different? You may have saved your face, your eternal elvish beauty, and done away with whatever aggravating emotions you may have started to feel for me. It would have been so much easier . . .”  
  
Her words automatically caused a wave of revulsion to rise up in him, sick and twisting at the thought of her coming to harm. Due to his pain and exhaustion, he was less than the serene eternity that so many of his kind forced themselves to project to the world at large. His fëa had already chosen her – caring little of dates and whether or not _she_ was ready - and the idea of her suffering even a tenth of what he now did . . . the idea of her falling before he could claim what was already his . . . anger rose in him for an opponent that was already dead, and he had to fight not to bare his teeth like an animal. “No,” he all but growled. He forced his voice to stay level. “I do not wish for that at all.”  
  
“Then why are you reacting this way?” she was merciless, moving her hand to push at his shoulder in her frustration. The green in her eyes was growing, and a part of him whispered that he was not the only one wearing his fey blood at the forefront. Souls recognized each other in pairs, and she was young, _so young_ to be dealing with such an onslaught of feeling on top of everything else.  
  
He forced himself to breathe, to _calm_. He was a prince of the Sindar, not a mindless faerie, selfish and possessive. He had centuries to his name, and he would control his emotions where she yet could not.  
  
“It is not beautiful,” he finally said, his words open and raw. He liked but little to admit a shortcoming of his – a shortcoming of his people, really. “I . . . _I_ am no longer beautiful. I have half a face to give to you, and the other half is . . . it is grotesque, and I wish not to suffer your eyes with such a sight.” _You deserve more that this_ , went unspoken. He could not force the words to leave his mouth. He was not yet that selfless.  
  
Her eyes softened, and yet, the green within only grew. “You think so little of me,” she said, and her voice was sad. “You think so little of _yourself_ if you think that all you have to offer is a face, as lovely as it may be.”  
  
“I have always been vain,” he said, seeing little point in denying it. “I appreciate beautiful things.” And she _was_ beautiful, something elemental and enchanting, leaning over him to peer into his eyes, as if she could draw out the secrets within. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth pursed in her frustration. He fought back the urge he had to sooth away the line between his eyes with his fingertips. He wanted to trace the shape her lips made.  
  
He breathed in deep, and exhaled slowly.  
  
“And yet . . . this was done by me . . . for me . . . “ at that her voice was little more than a whisper. “If I had been only the slightest bit faster . . . my aim the slightest bit truer, then you would be whole, and not shying away from me as you do now.”  
  
He felt a pang at her words, understanding then that she blamed herself. “I would do it over again,” he said, surprised by how easily they rolled from his mouth, not realizing that truth until it was spoken. “It was a small price to pay.” He swallowed against the weight of his words, feeling them as they fell into the air between them.  
  
Calelassel looked at him very closely. “Then, why do you hide yourself from me?”  
  
He could not answer her, not without acknowledging how the idea of her looking on him in scorn did not only terrify him, it _crippled_ him. He would rather face dragon-fire once more than receive such a wound from her. And, even worse, if she looked on him in _pity_ . . .  
  
“Please, do not doubt my heart,” she whispered after a moment. Her words were plain and entreating, and with a sort of resignation, he forced himself to a state of numb apathy as he understood that there would be no detouring her – not unless he wanted to ruin what he had spent the last several years building. And he was tired . . . he was so very tired. Too tired to resist her.  
  
It was easy to let the illusion fall away, a relief even. More so than the effort of healing, he was incredibly exhausted from the effort of controlling such a concentrated power for so long a time, and now he felt the strain snap and then level out, leaving only an ache behind from overuse. He concentrated on that ache rather than meeting her eyes, sure that he would look up and see . . .  
  
. . . sorrow . . . sorrow and surprise . . . both were to be expected. At first she only looked at him, her eyes moving rapidly as if she could take in everything at once. She blinked, and her eyes were wet, shining in the dark. He watched as she bit her lip, hurt filling her expression – on his behalf, it took him a moment to realize as he cautiously studied her expression.  
  
“Can you see?” was the first thing she asked; the most important thing to her. His left eye was nothing more than a glazed white orb, dead and corpse-like to view.  
  
“Yes,” he answered. His voice was dry. “Due to the Peredhel's efforts, I can see.”  
  
She nodded, and he felt a wave of relief pour from her. “Does it pain you?”  
  
“When I think about it,” he rolled his shoulders. “For the most part, it is now dead flesh you see. The pain I feel is more that of memory, but that too will fade in time.” He did not tell her about the agony he first endured from the flames ripping through his flesh. She could infer well enough, just from looking at the marks left behind.  
  
“You have your sight and your life . . . and you no longer feel pain,” she exhaled shakily. “That is all that matters.”  
  
He blinked at her words, not understanding. He could not wrap his mind around them, he could not even _agree_ with them. And yet, his thoughts came to a sudden halt when she did something unexpected.  
  
She reached out a hesitant hand, watching his eyes – the one eye that could still convey thought and feeling, at least – and gently, very gently, she touched the mangled mess of scar tissue that made up the left side of his face. She exerted no pressure, she simply rested the tips of her fingers on his skin, as if hesitant for causing him pain. She touched the knot of flesh and bone high on his cheek, and moved her first two fingers down towards the hollow, tracing where the flesh had completely burned away to leave nothing but ligaments and tendons beneath. There were gaping hollows, leaving little skin between his mouth and the outside of his face. The little skin there was red and ugly to look at, but the least of his pains. Her touch came to the puckered and ruined flesh beneath and around his eye. His orbital bone had at first been crushed, melted and fused to the rest of his skull. Now the rebuilt bone felt tender underneath even the barest of caresses.  
  
He held his breath, and wondered how she was able to touch what he could not even bring himself to look at.  
  
He had at first bore little of his nose left, and Elrond had worked at great effort to coax that to grow back. His struggles had paid off, though. Most of the cartilage had been rebuilt, and over the left slope of his nose, there were simply burns left – dry and stretching on the thin skin, but nothing more than that. She followed the swirling line of scars there, resting her finger in the crease that ran from his nose to his mouth.  
  
“How . . .” he could not finish his words. His voice was overwhelmed, a dry, hoarse sound.  
  
She could not quite smile in reply, but she tried. “It is _you_ ,” she said simply. “It is still _your_ face . . . and you bore this for _me_. You endured this for _me_. As such, each one of these marks are _mine_.” She inhaled deeply, the green all but swirling in her eyes – possessive and fey. “Your spirit still feels the same underneath. Your spirit feels the same, and that . . . that is the beauty that first called to me, that first snared me. I did not first understand when it was said that we find our matches and simply _know_. I did not understand, and now . . . I know that I am young . . . too young, perhaps, and yet . . . I can _feel_ you, and I understand how the moon directs the tides for how I am drawn to you. I . . . I hate that that pull did this to you. I hate that that tug forced you to endure this. I have felt each one of your pains as my own, and now, to think that you would cut that cord for your face no longer being whole . . .” he could feel her anger and her determination sparkle against his spirit, as consuming as dragon-fire. Only, he turned into this heat. He welcomed it.  
  
“I could feel your pain . . . I could feel your frustration and your anger, and to think that you bore such for me . . .” her voice faltered. It turned to a whisper. “I could not abide that. I could not breathe with it.”  
  
So immured as he was in his own agony, he had not even thought about what she would be able to feel over the ghost of a bond now connecting them. He had been restless and angry for days, and to think that she thought that directed at _her_. He exhaled, and forced himself to calmness, to peace. He had his sight, and she had her life. There was nothing else that mattered. He forced himself to think on that and only that. Nothing else mattered, not even . . .  
  
“Do you not see?” she whispered, feeling the shape of his thoughts, even if she was not able to specifically tell them one from the other. “You are still beautiful to me.” And he could feel the truth of that from her – a wave of warmth and adoration, and something more, something baser – low and pulsing beneath the bright glow of her regard.  
  
He could feel a brush of hesitation from her. Hesitation, and then determination swelled, quick and consuming. When she leaned forward, it was not her fingers she touched to his scared face, but rather, her lips.  
  
He started, feeling all but ready to leap from his skin when her mouth simply rested on the high arch of his cheek. Her touch was soft, barely even there with its pressure. And then, hesitantly, as if unsure of precisely what she was doing, she moved her mouth over one scar and then on to the next, leaving soft, butterfly kisses over each ridge of ruined flesh. The contact was innocent and pure, and yet it set his blood aflame more so than any heated encounter he had had as a youth curious for the ways of the flesh. She cupped the good side of his face in her hand, as if to hold him still, but he would have been unable to move even if he wanted to. Something inside of him felt small and humbled, and his eyes burned in an alarming way, betraying just how much the gesture moved him. He could not quite get enough air to his lungs. He lifted his own hand to cradle the back of her head, finally giving into the desire he had to touch her hair. Her mouth was hot and warm, but her hair was thick and cool, and he felt intoxicated on the dual sensations as his body spoke them to him.  
  
She moved her mouth to kiss underneath his eye, and then over the slope of his nose, and when her mouth brushed the corner of his lips, he felt his heart twist in his chest.  
  
Thranduil could count on one hand the number of times she had been close enough to kiss over the last few decades – and that was only because he had to forcibly endeavor to keep that number so low. Until the last decade or two, it had been more than his own conscience keeping him away from her - she had simply been too young by the laws of his kind, and he had to force himself to be stronger than the temptation she presented. But now she was warm and close, and his ruined flesh knew the touch of her lips while his mouth did not. His fëa was very close to the surface of his skin, giving off a light of its own as it pulsed within him, responding to the tug and draw of her own soul. It was too much, it was _overwhelming_ , and this time he did not fight the desire he had to turn his head and brush her lips with his own.  
  
She was very still, and for a moment he feared that he had done something wrong. And yet, she then relaxed against him, gingerly returning the kiss with one of her own. The kiss was gentle, relaxed and unhurried; a counterpoint to the furious tattoo of his pulse and the consuming need he could feel rising within him. Curiously she pressed closer to him, and he let himself follow her lead, letting her learn what pleased them both. _Her first kiss_ , he made himself remember, the knowledge bringing with it a warmth of its own. As best he could, he adhered to her comfort until he could not help but turn the kiss deeper, swallowing her surprised gasp as it turned into a moan. He sank both hands into her hair, well aware that his kisses were turning hungry and sensual, but unable to help himself. It was a fire of a different sort that consumed him then, but this one was healing where he had known only such pain before.  
  
She had a hand on each side of his face now, and the feeling of her bow callused fingers against his ruined skin caused a tremor to go through him. Lightning raced from the tips of her fingers, from the warmth of her mouth, and he cherished the sensations, his soul all but singing with the contact. She leaned over him all the more so, shifting restlessly as she unconsciously molded her body to him. Upon feeling the delicious warmth of her curves press against him, he forced himself to pull back – needing to end this before he _could not_. Wouldn't that be quite the tale for gossip upon the morrow? he thought without amusement. A prince of over a millennia unable to keep from bonding to a girl not much older than _fifty_ without first a proper courtship, or a real engagement, even, and -  
  
Her eyes were clouded with desire, hazy and green, the blue within nowhere to be seen. Her hair was mused and her lips were swollen and pink. He swallowed at the sight she presented, forgetting his train of thought for a moment as she took pity on him and carefully sat upright once more. Even still, her hand did not leave his face. He could not completely turn away from her touch as he committed that moment to his immortal memory, never wanting to forget it.  
  
“My brother intends to accompany your father over the mountains with Amdír's folk to seek out our kin of old,” Calelassel finally said when she had the voice to do so. “I know that you will stay in Lindon as Gil-galad builds it, and reign over our people who wish to remain by the sea. Someday, though . . . someday the forests will call you home, and I will no longer be a child unable to enter into a relationship with you on equal footing. I will make you no vow, not wanting you to think it only the words of youth speaking so . . . but I will say that when that day comes, you will find me waiting. I will wait, and someday, when you ask me for my hand I will accept.”  
  
Her words humbled him. Humbled, and awed him. He bowed his head before her as if she were the Starkindler herself, feeling undeserving of both her love and the gift of her promise. “The day you speak of may be many away,” even still, he could not help but warn her. “Centuries, even.”  
  
“I am an elf. I am patient; I can wait,” she said cheekily. Her eyes were glittering in the dark. “Now, can you?”  
  
“I have waited this long,” he said in reply, not able to wholly resist from touching her again. He traced the whole shape of her face, unburned and unmarred, letting his thumb rest on the full curve of her lower lip as he wished to earlier. She leaned into his touch. “I will wait as long as may need be.”  
  
A tension he did not realize to linger between them unraveled with his words – vowing, even where she said she would not. He did not trust himself to kiss her again, even though he dearly wished to. Instead, he concentrated on his exhaustion. He felt weary, but no longer was that weariness painful. He felt soothed, content even, as he laid back down. After a moment's thought, she followed him. She wrapped herself around him, pillowing her head against his chest and resting her hands in the warm fall of his hair. This close, he could feel both the rise and fall of her chest and the warmth of her breath against his skin. He concentrated on that, and only that, finding true healing as he closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep.  
  
  


/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thranduil** : In DOS, when he said that he fought the 'great serpant of the north', I assume that he was referring to the War of Wrath, which was certainly the place to earn a dragon burn or two, that's for sure. That said, Elrond's treating him, and the theories behind the hows and whys of his being able to alter his appearance are all my guesswork, and not canon set in stone. While my issues with the _Hobbit_ films are _many_ , this was one addition that I liked, and thus, had to write about.
> 
>  **Calelassel** : Her name is another translation of 'green leaf'. Because I could not resist. :)
> 
> For the longest time, I always assumed that Legolas' mother was Silvan. Yet, in Peter Jackson's DOS, Legolas called the elves of Gondolin his kin when taking Orcrist from Thorin. At first I did a _'hold up a second, did you do your research, Jackson!?'_ and then I paused . . . and I thought about it. After all, in Sirion there was a highly concentrated mix of Sindar from Doriath and Noldor from Gondolin. It was very possible that Legolas' mother was born of those two peoples (since I highly doubt that Thranduil would wed a purely Noldor bride.) And then, with Legolas' eventual sea-longing and sailing West . . . it made sense that he had a bit of the Exile's curse in his blood - even if that also could be explained by his having Silvan blood, for they too bore a disquiet for the sea. And yet, the idea of Thranduil telling Oropher that he was going to marry a woman with even partially Noldor blood was instantly something that made me laugh. So! This head-canon was then accepted.
> 
> Why so young, you may ask? Well, I wanted her to be born in Sirion or soon after, but at the same time I needed a plausible explanation as to why she and Thranduil wouldn't marry and settle down together until he took up rulership of the Greenwood after Sauron's defeat in the Second Age. An age difference to start, and then centuries of duty and war getting in the way seemed like the way to go, and thus, this story wrote itself. I will probably dabble more with these two at a later time, but for now I thank you for humoring my version of events as they may have happened. :)


	51. "as little might be thought"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Fingon & Elrond || Prompt: _Distract_ , Free-write
> 
> This is another of my 'Maedhros in the Fourth Age' vignettes, from the same plot arc found in both chapters 16 and 29 - though this one is set before the his return to Alqualondë in chapter 29. This also puts a nice ribbon on my arc of Peredhil-esque stories I have been writing with the last few updates, so I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. :)

**Distract  
  
** The first year following his release from Námo's keeping, he managed to keep himself from seeing anyone and everyone.  
  
It suited him, this quiet living. Maedhros busied himself with little more than building the small dwelling he shared with Fingon, all the while learning how to do a hundred things his body had forgotten with death anew. He did not seek up or down the road, and none sought him out in return. It was better this way, Maedhros thought, for he was as unwilling to entertain company as he was eager to be seen in kind.  
  
While he would have been content with the silence and the door still without anyone ever passing through, Fingon had visitors every now and again. Nolofinwë came to visit once, yet Maedhros 'conveniently' had work to occupy him out of doors while Fingon spent the day with his father. Anairë stopped by to visit her son with every other turn of the moon, bringing letters from others in the family along with the news and gossip from Tirion. Her sharp mind had been one of the unspoken forces behind Arafinwë's successfully reigning over the Noldor since the Darkening, and it was a role she continued to play now, even as she shared it with those who returned. She did her best to draw Fingon back into the cares of their people – and, more subtly, coax him to do the same.  
  
Unlike his brother, Arafinwë was more pointed with his visit. His uncle waited him out until he at last returned, standing surprised in the doorway to find the Noldor-king still sitting in the common room, pouring him a cup of tea as if he was an expected companion – which, due to his Sight, he was. Arafinwë had ignored his gaping mouth, and instead welcomed him to sit as if four ages of the world had not passed since last they met. There had been a warmth in Arafinwë's eyes, Maedhros hated to see . . . a _missing_. It was a missing that baffled him – for the last time he had seen his uncle, it had been with the carnage at Alqualondë stretched out between them. There had been denial and horror etched into the gentle lines of his face, and he . . .  
  
But Maedhros did not . . . _could not_ . . . think of that now.  
  
How Arafinwë was able to look beyond his actions was something Maedhros could not understand. Afterward, Fingon had been unrelenting as he pointed out that he was his own worst enemy. If others could forgive him, if _Námo himself_ could pardon his sins, then perhaps it was time for him to do so as well.  
  
Hearing such a thing said, no matter how many times, was one thing. It was quite another to believe those words in his bones, to _live_ them . . .  
  
In the year since his return to life, Turgon had come to visit once - but that was Fingon's company to be had. Maedhros wished to seek out Fingon's brother as much as Turgon wanted to see him, and so, they avoided each other well enough.  
  
The frame of their cottage was halfway done, rustic and simple, and while he carefully toiled away at the interior, they already had a small garden growing on the east side of the house, where the rising sun would shine bright and welcoming upon the fledgling crops. The healthy soil encouraged the growth of both weeds and those plants they wanted, and Maedhros kept himself busy, letting the sun on his bare back and the earth beneath his hands sooth away the turbulent spin of his spirit. Later in the day, when Turgon gathered his horse from where he had been grazing and set out again, Maedhros came to the garden gate to watch him depart, but came no further.  
  
Turgon did not see him, yet Fingon did. Of course, he always did.  
  
After they could see Turgon no more due to a bend in the road, Fingon came in through the garden gate. Maedhros turned back to his weeding, pretending to be uninterested in Turgon's departure. It was a cloudless day, and the sunlight was bright and warm from the blue sky above. The gold in Fingon's braids glittered in the sun, fighting to match the amused glint in his gaze. Maedhros looked, and upon catching the knowing look in his eyes, he ducked his head again, pretending to be completely enraptured by the small green shoots coming up alongside the carrot tops.  
  
“You have perfected the art of going unseen when you do not wish to be found,” Fingon commented, kneeling down on the opposite side of the row to aid him. “Many are beginning to believe that you still walk as a spirit in Námo's Halls, and I have but concocted a fantasy of you in my mind.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Maedhros waved his hand. “Had you been building alone, the roof would still leak water, and as it does not . . .”  
  
Fingon raised a brow, but allowed him his deflection. “It is true, the craftsmanship around me does suggest a Fëanorian hand.”  
  
Maedhros snorted. “You may hand me tools, my friend, and then little more. Your strengths have always laid elsewhere.”  
  
“You are kind in wording my faults,” Fingon gave a teasing bow, always easy within his own skin. Even still, Maedhros could not quite smile with their banter. Even though they spoke in jest, there was a weight behind the words. Waiting . . .  
  
Only, he did not have to wait for long. Not this time.  
  
“So,” Fingon started carefully. His voice was hesitant in tone, his timbre shaped to sooth even as he struck his wound. Maedhros braced himself. “Turgon came from Lantasírandë before journeying here. He brought news of the settlement, if you were interested in hearing.”  
  
Ah.  
  
Maedhros frowned, suddenly understanding Fingon's reason for speaking carefully. He looked down, but there was nothing else he could do with the carrot tops. He moved on to the pepper plants, where a thin, vine like weed was trying to creep up the stalks. He started pulling at the weeds carefully, separating the cancerous growth from the young blooms with a careful hand. Fingon took his sudden interest in the health of the pepper plants in stride, scooting down the row to help him with his task.  
  
“Elrond's house has grown,” Fingon continued, speaking as if nothing was amiss between them. “There are few of our kind left in Endórë who need find the grey ships West, and many from the latter days have settled in the vale. Turgon speaks with nothing but pride when it comes to his great-grandson. He could scarce mention anything else for the majority of his visit.”  
  
“Turgon has been blessed in the reach of his line,” Maedhros said stiffly, moving the soil to cover over where he had taken a weed out by the root.  
  
Fingon toyed with a small spade that had been left standing in the soil, not actually doing anything helpful in favor of continuing to stare at him. Maedhros could feel the weight of his gaze, as poignant in this life as it had been in the last.  
  
“You were inquired after,” Fingon said. He pushed his fingers against a wound, testing the bruise for healing whilst mindful of the pain he would inflict by doing so. “It must have been often, and at great length for Turgon to tell me so, elsewise he would have happily kept that information to himself.”  
  
Maedhros was silent. He moved the soil back and forth, not truly conscious of his movements save for the feel of the black, moist earth in his hands.  
  
“You cannot avoid this forever,” Fingon said gently. “Eventually the Perelda will seek you out – and yet, I think it would be better if you were to go to him first. Lantasírandë is hidden, and those dwelling there will know of you in name only. There will be curiosity for your visit, but it will not be the weight of memories. Your visit would not be crushing, I think, but rather . . . healing.”  
  
Still Maedhros was silent. He did not meet his cousin's eyes. And yet, Fingon was unperturbed. Long was he used to fighting where he was concerned, and he would plant the seed of an idea now and watch it grow.  
  
Yet, Maedhros would not . . . he could not . . .  
  
“You never know,” Fingon remarked wryly, “You may even enjoy yourself if you go. For now, you commit yourself to an exile no different than the sentence you served in Mandos' Halls.”  
  
“Better for all is my staying here,” Maedhros finally said. His voice was little more than a whisper, given to the soil and the growing things rather than to Fingon's ears. “You were not there, you did not see . . .”  
  
“I did not see what, exactly?” Fingon questioned, his tone blunt and challenging. “I did not see that you raised two children - two children who had nowhere else to go? It is true, I did not see a love grow, where little would have first been thought. And yet, what seems impossible to your eyes is not so strange to me.”  
  
And yet, it should have been. It should have been reprehensible, even - a thing of horror. He had spent so long repenting of his actions at Alqualondë, to only repeat them at Doriath and then once again at Sirion. He could not think about it himself for the shame of it, and he did not know how Fingon could speak of it so easily. He did not understand how Fingon could still _care_ . . .  
  
_Why does he care?_ Maedhros could not help but wonder. _Why does he stay here with me, playing at my keeper in Námo's place? Why does he look at me as if we are still young men living in Arda's spring?_  
  
Though Fingon had little skill in the mental arts – not like Arafinwë's children and their talents with the uncanny, he could still feel the emotions that accompanied his thoughts, so close were they after so many centuries. Fingon sighed. He reached out to prune a dying leaf from the plant nearest to him while Maedhros let his hands rest at the roots.  
  
“Someday you will understand the answer to that question,” Fingon said softly, answering the unspoken. “And yet, on that day you will no longer feel the need to seek such an insight. It is an understanding that your former ward already holds, and you are unfair in your assuming otherwise.”  
  
Maedhros swallowed, silent for a long moment. “You were not there,” he whispered. “It was my actions at Sirion that left them without home and those to care for them. If I would have given them to Gil-galad's care earlier instead of dragging them around the wild, waiting for Eärendil to return -”  
  
“ - who is to say that it was not for the better?” Fingon returned. “The history of Endórë may have been different indeed if Elwing the White was the one to raise her sons - for while she has since learned peace, she was little more than a vessel for the Silmaril then. You have much to offer besides a legacy of blood and pain. You have wisdoms uncounted and strengths deep and immeasurable. The Pereldar, more so than any other, reaped the best of you – and the time they spent with you and Makalaurë shaped the course of history more so than you will let yourself see.”  
  
For a moment, Maedhros was not able to reply. How could he explain that the simple matter of Elros calling him _father_ had been the last, deciding factor for them to finally give the children up? For he loved the sons of Eärendil, and loved them dearly. He loved them enough to let them go when it became apparent that the Silmaril of Lúthien would remain far from the shores of Middle-earth forever more. And yet, that love had not been enough to stop him in the end. He had only seen the Silmarils within Eönwë's camp. He had not been able to listen as Elrond pleaded for Maglor and him to choose _them_ over the hallowed gems, to stay with _them_ and forget their hopeless Oath. Put _them_ first, was the simple task asked of him – something few in the twin's young lives had done up to that point . . . Yet, he had not been able to do so. He had failed them. He had failed them as _Elwing_ had, as _Eärendil_ had, as _Fëanor_ had he and all of his brothers long before that. Elros was hardly more than a child and making an impossible decision about his fate, and he . . . he had left them to make the Pereldar's choice unguided. He had seen only the flames of his Oath, and let those flames consume him as he breathed his last breath and threw everything away – uncaring about those he left behind.  
  
Now . . . now Elros was centuries dead, long sleeping in the ever-slumber of Men. Elros was dead, and Elrond was there just beyond his craven reach. Did he wish to seek him out, and meet the man his child had become? He did, a small and distant part of him whispered – a part that was all new flesh and old loves, long scarred over and still struggling to heal . . . This was the part of him that Námo had seen in his spirit and foolishly thought to be worth more than the rotted whole of his being. It was _this_ the Vala had counted worthy of forgiveness, and yet, he could not yet bring himself to see what the Lord of Death saw fair and bright about his soul.  
  
“I did not do right by them,” was all that Maedhros could force himself to say. It did not matter that he could not put his feelings into words – Fingon had followed the shape of his thoughts within his mind, and understood them in their entirety. “Not as I should have, at any rate.”  
  
“And yet, you can now,” Fingon said, his voice sharp with determination. Always, his wisdoms were simple. While he knew the world for its shades of grey, his insights nearly always veered towards the white as he looked for the best in anything and everything. “The only thing stopping such a healing is _you_ , Maitimo.”  
  
Still Maedhros looked down at the plants before him. He wanted to speak, and yet, he was not quite sure what to say.  
  
But Fingon had said his piece, and now he was done - for the moment, at least. “We will have a yield of peppers by the summer's end,” he said amicably, looking up at the bright warmth of the sunlight above. “It has been a rather fruitful season for growth, would you not say?”  
  
Maedhros raised a brow, letting him know that he was as bad with his double meanings in this life as when he was the High-king in Exile, but Fingon ignored him, moving on to the tomatoes next. Maedhros knew that while the subject was closed for that moment, it was far from over.  
  
Now, he was able to think about nothing else. Oh, he tried to distract himself, but there was little use.  
  
He threw himself into his building, but he found that he remembered teaching Elros how to wheedle away shapes from wood with his knife. He remembered Elros' constructions becoming more and more elaborate, even as Elrond picked his mind for the formulas and the simple rules of mathematics that governed the building of most structures. They put both together until Elros was sketching out great ships on parchment - planning a building that would not be his for many years to come. There had been laughter aplenty with naming his fleet and imagining a realm of the sea - an imagining that would eventually be Elros' in reality. Thinking about Númenor, lost beneath the waves – with Elros' tomb visited only by Ulmo himself - he was reminded almost violently of that which he had lost on watching grow before time ran out completely.  
  
When he took a day, and then two, off from his building, Fingon said nothing as to his pause. Even so, Maedhros saw the _knowing_ in his eyes, and that managed to rankle him more than anything else. When Fingon asked him if he wished to spar – giving him an outlet to unleash the coiled energy in his limbs – he accepted, ignoring his unspoken rule of touching not of steel since returning to life anew. Even that was filled with memories. He remembered holding swords in small hands for the first times, and watching as children once again took to the art of war beneath the watchful eye of his tutelage. He remembered Elros' strong and determined, taking to the fight in the style of the Atani with his sweeping blows and exacting footwork. Elros had taken naturally to the sword, while Elrond had to devote himself to its learning to keep up with his twin. Maglor was much the same with his skills, Maedhros remembered, and he had changed his tactics to help the child learn as Maglor had learned so long ago. In the end, Elrond had been quick and clever with a blade in his hand, more like a river as it picked through the land where Elros was as a tide. The sword was an art he knew well, and few were those in Middle-earth who could best him - even with one hand. His talent was one he was able to pass on tenfold.  
  
Now, with resurrecting that talent, he had been little company for Fingon - all but stalking away from the clearing in annoyance when the distraction proved to be for not. Fingon had not followed him, feeling the fraying strands of his temper as it sparked, and Maedhros had been glad for his insight as he was left alone.  
  
He tried riding after that, but that distraction only brought back memories of holding small bodies atop their ponies for the first time. He remembered speaking of the bond between rider and animal - teaching the twins how to first ride without saddle and bridle, showing them instead how they could commune with the soul of their mounts, and learn from the bond that came from such a connection. He had remembered, and his own bay stallion had pranced beneath him, picking up on his restless mood.  
  
Of course, his day on the trails was interrupted by the rain – proof that Námo was not quite through with punishing him, he thought darkly - and Maedhros rode home soaked and dripping, his hair slipping from his braids in wet tangles as thunder rumbled over the land above him.  
  
_One Balrog . . . two Balrogs . . . three Balrogs are slain by Glorfindel!_ he remembered Elros counting out the peals of thunder above, and he hung the saddle back upon the rack with more force than was strictly necessary.  
  
It rained through the next day, and he tried turning to his work indoors. He sorted through the missives from Tirion that Fingon attended to for Arafinwë – but, in truth, passed on to him. It was an old skill of his to put his mind to the riddles of the court, one he learned for Finwë's rule and carried on to Middle-earth. After, he worked on translating old lore in the newer tongues, but he did not make it far before remembering Elrond's wide eyes as they peered over the scrolls he attended. The child had a mind made for letters and their shape, for tales and their weight, and he found a natural scholar in the boy – a talent that he had encouraged in part, and Maglor even more so than he. Long days were passed teaching the High Tongue and the even more ancient language spoken before Quenya developed its full form. Vanyarin was studied, and Telerin was consumed until they were hard pressed to keep up with the demands of _more_ that were constantly being heaped upon them.  
  
He placed the quill down, frustrated, and when Fingon started plucking a tune on the harp that had once been Elros' favorite . . .  
  
Maedhros had had it.  
  
He could stay here no longer.  
  
He left before the dawn the next morning, determined to sate the curiosity in his bones. _I shall come upon the valley, and no further_ , he tried to reason with himself. _I just want to see . . ._  
  
And then . . .  
  
_Maybe a cup of tea, and then I shall leave_ , he decided next.  
  
He turned back on the path a moment later, annoyed with his own stupidity in thinking that he would be welcomed in any way. Of course, he made it only a mile in the direction of home before turning on the trail again. He had come this far, he reasoned, and . . .  
  
_Maybe I can just walk though the valley and have a look around . . . I will keep my hood up, and hide my hair . . ._  
  
He turned towards home, annoyed with himself.  
  
Ten paces later, he turned back again.  
  
_You are being foolish_ , he told himself. _Absolutely foolish._  
  
. . . somewhere, he was sure that Námo was laughing himself silly over this, Maedhros thought darkly. It was just the sort of thing the Vala would take delight in.  
  
_You_ , he hissed at his own mind, _are behaving as a child. Cease this. You were able to ride to Morgoth himself to greet him in a parley, and speaking to the Perelda will now defeat you? You have stared down horrors unimaginable, and survived perils untold. You have held the eye of a Vala, and he deemed you worthy to return to life anew, and now, you will squander such a gift on your own craven heart . . ._  
  
. . . for that was the simple truth of the mater. He . . . he was afraid, _terrified_ even, of the reception he would receive, knowing as he did the cool way he knew Elrond's eyes could cut when they wanted to. Such a look was Turgon's in shape . . . or maybe it was inherited from Thingol, he thought with a wince. The stories always did leave out Lúthien's temper, at that, and -  
  
. . . he was rambling, even to himself. A now familiar ache threatened to settle about his temples.  
  
He turned back twice more, convinced that his task was utter foolishness, before he set upon the road with determination in his heart. He would not turn back again, he decided. He had chosen his course, and he would stick too it.  
  
Maedhros spent that day traveling in silence, lost within his thoughts. During that first night on the road, he closed his eyes by the fire, and opened them to see that Fingon had caught up with him.  
  
“You followed me,” he said. There was no question in his words, only a statement. Really, he reflected, he should not have been surprised.  
  
“My following you is terms of your parole, technically,” his cousin teased. “Námo released you from his Halls only so long as I kept an eye on you. I am not one to disobey the order of a Vala.”  
  
At that, Maedhros turned over in his bedroll – firmly ignoring the other man. He could feel Fingon's eyes on him from over the dying light of the fire, but a moment later they fell away. Fingon set up his own bedroll and fell into sleep easier than he did – ever comfortable as he was with himself and his place in the world. Maedhros stayed awake while his cousin's soft snores filled the clearing, looking at the stars shining brightly down through the canopy of branches above.  
  
He did not sleep at all that night, but his horse was rested and ready to carry him the rest of the way into the mountains. The Pelóri mountains made strange shapes so close to the Calacirya, where the light spilled onto the rock in dancing and ethereal patterns. Sometimes, he could close his eyes and pretend that he was still in Endórë beyond, while at others times Valinor did not let him forget her majesty of presence . . . her tug of _home_ upon his soul, even without the light of the Trees.  
  
Fingon rode a good dozen paces behind him on the road – letting him work through his demons on his own, but lingering just within reach - ever ready as he was to give him a hand to lift him from the depths of his own mind. Though he did not say so aloud, he was grateful for his presence in the way he was grateful for a shield upon his back during a battle. And yet, it was no battle he stepped towards now. It was a reunion, and what should have been a glad and joyous thing was now a weight upon his chest – a quickening to his heart that his blood rushed to keep time with.  
  
He breathed in deep, and let his breath out slow, trying to do away with the restlessness in his bones. The horse beneath him was fidgety and nickered in annoyance, having picked up on his mood and feeling it in kind. He made absent, shushing sounds underneath his breath, trying to calm the animal – and himself in turn.  
  
Behind him, Fingon started whistling an old walking song that Maglor had thought up on one of the long journeys to Formenos in the north, where each in their party had built on the ridiculous tune until the song could hold no more. The song was a memory of happy times, drawing Maedhros' mind into a pleasant state of numbness as he remembered his family before the Silmarils and Morgoth's toxic influence. He forced his thoughts to concentrate on that and nothing else as they made their way deeper into the mountains.  
  
They could just hear the sound of falling water in the distance when they came upon a figure cloaked in dark green on the path. The elf was on horseback, speaking in rapid Sindarin to someone further down the trail. From the distance, Maedhros could not hear what he said, but he could see the telling spill of inky hair . . . the familiar breadth of shoulders . . . the same serious brow and line of mouth that he had one time known as well as his own, and -  
  
“Elrond?” Maedhros called down the path, the greeting slipping from his mouth before he could think to pull it back in. His horse picked up his pace without his command, obeying the wish of his mind before he could give his actions conscious thought.  
  
The elf turned towards him as he approached, and Maedhros saw where he had been mistaken. While the man on the path bore much in common with his former ward, he could see where another's features had been merged to birth the face before him. The amusement in the silver-grey eyes was a nearly painful reminder of Elros, he thought next, when -  
  
“I am not my father,” the elf said, and . . . ah, Maedhros understood his error. The child he had raised was a father himself now. He had been for thousands of years, even, and -  
  
“Elladan?” he tried next, remembering the stories Fingon had passed on from Turgon's mouth.  
  
The second figure on the path rode up to them; an exact replica to the first elf in face. The first elf was just slightly broader of shoulder than his twin – built almost like a Man, Maedhros thought, in comparison to his more fey brother. The son who identified more with his mortal blood? Maedhros hazarded a guess. That would make the second Elrohir, who was watching him with a quiet solemnity that was all his father's look in shape.  
  
“Aye, that I am,” Elladan answered, confirming his guess. “Well done,” he gave, the barest of grins tugging on the corner of his mouth. “It normally takes others a good century to tell us apart, and you did so at first glance.”  
  
“I have had practice in the matter,” Maedhros answered, the words suggesting an ease that he did not feel.  
  
His youngest brothers had been twins, and alike as two separate bodies could be; they all but sharing one soul between them. Even his own brothers had difficulty in telling the Ambarussa apart – something that the twins had delighted in – but he had always known, even when they had tried to fool people otherwise. Poor Caranthir had been tasked with looking after the Ambarussa more often than not, and remained the closest with Fëanor's more fey sons into adulthood. Yet, even he stumbled over who was Amrod and who was Amras.  
  
. . . happier memories of his family were a rare thing since his Awakening, Maedhros thought then. It was odd, to think of his kin with a pang that was missing, rather than grief, but it was not unwelcome.  
  
“So the stories would say,” Elladan answered, calling him back to himself. Where his twin was quiet and watching, he looked at Maedhros with an unabashed curiosity – as if he was a character from a story come to life. And, in a way, he was. It just waited to be seen what sort of story he starred in . . . “We have heard much about you, Maedhros Fëanorian. Please – it would be our honor to lead you further into the valley, if that is where you are heading?”  
  
As it all to often was, he did not need to wonder if he was recognized – his red hair was a dead giveaway. At least he had both hands to his use now, he thought ruefully. He still bore his scars from Angband, criss-crossing his body in stark ridges of silvery white lines. He had not consciously asked Námo to keep those when the Vala crafted his body anew, but it had been a wish of his heart to remember. The Lord of Souls understood him better than he did himself, and made it so.  
  
Now, he took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I was heading into the valley. I would be glad of a guide.”  
  
“Excellent,” Elladan was easy with his smiles, Maedhros saw. “Please, follow us then. And your friend too?” he glanced to where Fingon lingered further back on the path – pretending to be interested in a species of blue bird that was singing above him rather than joining in on their greetings.  
  
Maedhros fought the urge to snort at his friend's antics. Only Fingon.  
  
“Yes, Fingon too,” he said loud enough for the other to hear, and Fingon reined his horse towards them at the summons.  
  
“Wonderful,” Elladan said. “This way if you please.”  
  
At his words, Elrohir started first down the path. Elladan followed his brother, slowing his mount so that he could ride at Maedhros' side. Maedhros glanced behind, and saw that while Fingon followed he made no move to catch up.  
  
“I am glad for your presence,” Elladan fell into conversation easily – as if they were the oldest of friends, commenting on the weather. “Adar has been as a caged bear in the valley since news of your rembodiment reached us from Turgon's mouth. Naneth has had to tell him to stay put more often than not, for she was certain that you would come to us, in your own time.”  
  
Elrohir glanced back, and darted a look at his twin – one that Elladan returned with a raised brow, annoyed with his brother's chastisement.  
  
“And yet,” Elladan said carefully, glancing at his brother as he did so, “That is a story for Adar to share, and not my place to say.”  
  
A moment passed, and then Elrohir asked, “How long will you be staying in the valley?”  
  
Maedhros paused. “I am not sure,” he answered. “I had scarce made my plans to journey here before I was on the road. I had not thought much past that.”  
  
“I see,” Elrohir commented, and then said no more.  
  
Maedhros blinked at the cold demeanor from the younger twin, but accepted it in stride. Elrohir's opinion was no doubt the same as many would hold, and he would take cool pleasantries over outright disdain. The younger twin was as wary as a sentry wolf stalking around the den while his pack slept. Maedhros could not begrudge him that.  
  
Elladan, however, was not as quick to let his brother go. “Forgive Elrohir,” he turned to Maedhros, his look narrowing in a way that was not Elrond – but rather, Artanis when she was moved to annoyance by others. Was such a trait passed on from her daughter? Maedhros wondered, amused. He was aware that he was staring, but he was unable to do anything else with the nearly surreal encounter – so many old and forgotten things now alive and remembered before him. “His wife and son are gone to Tirion until the solstice, visiting her kindred, and business prevented him from following along. He will be amiable again once she returns.”  
  
“It is not - ” Elrohir started to protest before thinking the better of it. His face softened, but only just. “Forgive me for my rudeness,” he said a moment later. “I did not mean to offer insult, and it shall not happen again.”  
  
“I took no offense,” Maedhros assured, curious as he watched the brother's interact. Slow to give affections, but humble too, he reflected. He could think of worse combinations. “I thank you, though.”  
  
They walked for some time, no sound between them but for the hoofbeats of the horses, and Fingon's whistling from further down the path. While not completely comfortable, the silence was not edged, and Maedhros let it stretch.  
  
“You picked a good time of year to visit,” Elrohir said next, breaking the silence between them. His words were slow to start, but they picked up as he spoke. “The waterfalls are at full rush by the end of the spring – with the winter melt finally making its way down the mountains, and all. They are beautiful to behold.”  
  
“There is a place on the eastern summit where they empty into a basin for swimming – you can see the whole valley from there,” Elladan added.  
  
“It sounds beautiful,” Maedhros commented, content to let them speak about a subject dear to them. He enjoyed the simple appreciation and happiness in their eyes – _home_ , in a word defined. It was something he was glad they knew, and had always known. Better was it to raise children in a time of watchful peace, as they had been . . . happy and uncaring of the shadow that ever waited in Arda marred.  
  
Like so many others, he pushed that thought away, and tried to concentrate on the moment – focusing instead on the smell of leather and horse and pine from the forest around them. He concentrated on the reins in his hand, even if he led his mount more with his seat, encouraging the animal when the road turned steeper as it climbed.  
  
“We had thought that we would find nothing more beautiful than Imladris in this land, but I think the Valar heard our concerns. They say that Aulë pressed his fingers into the rock and Ulmo blew out his breath of water, and this valley was created as a gift for the Edhil born in Ennor.” Elladan's eyes sparkled as he said so. “I had thought myself too old for such tales, and yet . . . well, you will see.”  
  
And then, they were there.  
  
Another bend in the path turned, and then the trees opened up to a grand cliff-side view. The forest parted to reveal where the mountains looked down on a great valley carved below. From every direction, waterfalls poured over the cliffs from where the various rivers in the mountains met and mingled. Their spray caught on the sunlight and created patterns of prismed light in reflection. The mountain air and the mist carried a bright, sweet smell, refreshing in comparison to the green veil of the forest they stepped from. The rock itself hummed with enchantments and song – peace and healing surrounding the settlement in a near tangible way, more than a match for the mist and the roar of the waters below.  
  
Down in the valley, an elegant city rose up from the rock, twining and spinning with the play of water and the natural shape of the land. The architecture was gentle and graceful, all natural motifs of vines and graceful columns that resembled trees – some of which Maedhros remembered from when the twins had huddled together and spoke of their dreams of the future. Now, to see such a place given both life and breath . . .  
  
It was beautiful, he admitted. The valley was natural, built to merge with its setting rather than rise above it. It was different from the white marble glory of Tirion . . . the sea-side twist of Alqualondë's might, gleaming in soft coral pastels like the inside of a shell . . . the golden brilliance of Valmar at the base of the Valar's mountain. This fit those returned from the land across the sea, looking for the tentative promise of healing and life anew. This . . . was perfect, he could not help but think, glad as he was that the Valar gave these people a place of their own rather than a place long settled and lived in by too many immortal beings to count.  
  
“Here we are,” Elladan introduced with a broad sweeping of his hand. “The valley of Lantasírandë.”  
  
Maedhros looked, and found his heart quite taken. Behind him, he could feel Fingon's presence as he peered over his shoulder, yet he did not look back to see the other's face smiling and insufferable. Instead he followed the twins onwards, and together they rode down into the valley.  
  
They came through the gates beneath the watchful eye of two sentries – whom the twins waved to, and Maedhros ducked his head to avoid meeting their eyes. Already there were people crawling everywhere he looked, and he felt his heart rise in his throat at the press and mingle of the populace beyond. He had not been amongst such a crowd in . . . well, centuries. Even before his death it had been just he and Maglor more often than not, their host of men dwindling until they led only dozens beneath their father's banner. And then, once returning to life again . . .  
  
He breathed in deep, trying to quell the rush of anxiety he felt rising within him. They reached the stables, and once he crossed under the shadows of the stall, he knew relief as he slid from the saddle. He breathed into the bay's mane for a moment, gathering himself before he stepped back, ready to untack the animal when Fingon instead walked to his side and took the reins for him.  
  
“Leave that to me,” he said aloud, while silently he touched his mind with his own. _I will not let you tarry here_ , Fingon chided, easily seeing through his attempt at providing himself with a distraction. Beyond them, Elladan and Elrohir gave their horses over to the grooms, and sent a page up to their parents to announce their return.  
  
Maedhros swallowed, slow as he was to give the reins to his friend. _Better are you remembered for your valiance, rather than I_ , he returned wryly, the words inadequate to explain how much the thought of continuing onwards filled him with a fear that he had never found in battle. It was a fear he had only known as a child, standing before his father's critiquing eyes and wishing, _hoping_ for Fëanor's favor as he was judged.  
  
Shakily, he inhaled. He let the breath out slow.  
  
_Be that as it may, never have the tales dubbed you a coward_ , Fingon did not let him go so easily. He leaned closer on the pretense of rubbing down the bay's forehead, smiling when the stallion nickered in affection at the caress.  
  
_That is because they did not see my heart_ , Maedhros admitted. _There was fear enough there to cripple me at times._  
  
_All know fear_ , Fingon said gently. _It is how one acts upon that fear that matters in the end. You will do well, my friend, but only if you let yourself do so. Trust yourself, as I do._  
  
Trust . . . that more than anything else was proving harder to grasp and hold on to.  
  
_Now, begone with you_ , Fingon sent with a brush of affection.  
  
And so . . . he trusted, and turned away from Fingon once the twins were ready to depart.  
  
They left the stables, and took a small path leading to the span of the settlement beyond. As he was led through the streets, many eyes turned to him – but it was as Fingon had predicted before. There was curiosity in the looks, but few eyes truly judged. For the most part, he was known through legend only, or there were those old enough to remember his deeds in the Elder Days without knowing him personally. There were those who remembered the good he did in his life; those who had fought in the north, who remembered how he had tried to lead and inspire the Noldor in Exile . . . There were those who remembered their losses at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears . . . those who remembered how he mourned Fingon's death and then shut himself off from the world after, refusing to bestir himself for anything but the fulfillment of his Oath.  
  
And . . . there were those in the valley who had survived Doriath . . . who had survived Sirion. There were those there who had fallen, and had returned to life anew, much like himself. Those eyes were cold and cautious upon them . . . but none were openly hostile, not in this place of warmth and healing.  
  
They walked over elegant bridges, through plazas and intersections and a bustling marketplace. Elrond's household was in full swing with the late afternoon, with seemingly every soul moving about on one task or another. The family's personal buildings in the settlement were calmer, but not by much. Many walked by with scrolls and harps, while the household staff saw to the day to day chores and made preparations for the evening meal.  
  
Ahead of them, Elladan wondered aloud about the possibility of trout for dinner – catching the eye of a passing she-elf in a kitchen apron. The cook stopped in her path, but instead of answering him, she asked about a missing platter of lemon cakes with an exaggerated crossness to her mouth as she spoke – telling him that he was much too old for such mischiefs. The Perelda only smiled charmingly as he extolled her unsurpassed talents with pastries, completely unrepentant, and she did nothing more but tweak his ear in chastisement before continuing on towards the kitchens.  
  
“Next time I shall tell her that it was _you_ ,” Elladan threatened when his twin tried to hold back his laughter behind his hand.  
  
“Bethril will never believe you,” Elrohir returned wryly. “She has not for centuries.”  
  
Elladan gave his brother a look, and held it until Elrohir reached into the pack he still had slung over his shoulder to bring out the wrapped remnants of the lemon cakes. He tossed the treat to his brother.  
  
“This is all I ask of you, brother dear,” Elladan said, smirking in triumph as he caught the package. In reply Elrohir muttered something underneath his breath that Maedhros could not catch.  
  
Following a step behind, Maedhros watched the domestic scene with a bittersweet sense of fondness, remembering what it had been like to be part of a large and spiraling community, no mater how many times he had tried to push the memories from his mind. The camaraderie between the twins reminded him of his own brothers, and he . . .  
  
With a pang, he thought of the family he had left behind in Mandos' Halls. Celegorm and Curufin would linger as their father did, waiting until the breaking of the world for the violence in their souls and their crimes in life – both healing and finding forgiveness as they aided and sought forgiveness from other healing souls. The Ambarussa had always been a strange pair, and they did well in Mandos' keeping - they each having little will to leave. Caranthir alone walked in the Halls fully aware and conscious of his decision to stay. He lingered much as Aegnor did to see where those of mortal-kind went within the black veils of death and what came after. Maedhros had asked his brother to come back to life with him, but the white of Caranthir's spirit had only brightened as with a smiling mouth. Though a bodiless spirit could feel not, he had felt as if he were being embraced as his little brother told him to go on and find himself again. Eternity was a long time, and it was not futile to hope in the possibility of a reunion. Someday, Maedhros believed in his heart, they all would meet again.  
  
That left only Maglor lost to him . . . Maglor, who had been dearest to him of his family in life, still walked the shores of Middle-earth beyond, even though the days of lore were swiftly passing the world by, their kind becoming as whispers to the sons of Men. Maglor would continue to sing to the sea in lamentation, waiting until . . .  
  
Maedhros set his mouth in a thin line, squaring his jaw as he thought of the one thing he would have to ask of the Valar when the time was right. He would not leave his brother to pay his penance until the end of time – not gentle Maglor with his poet's soul who had known truer grief for their actions than any. And yet, he was in no position to ask leave to bring him back. Not yet . . . not until . . .  
  
He inhaled once more. His breath shook as he let it free from his lungs. He did not know how long it would take until he would earn the right to ask the Valar's leave to see to this wish, and so, he tried not to think about his brother when he could help it. Especially now, when . . .  
  
The twins brought him next to a great and spiraling library – one twisting and spanning enough to match even the lore-master's halls in Tirion in its depth of content, if not in quantity. Maedhros blinked, taking in the scholar's horde of scrolls and tomes around him, even as he felt a smile tug upon his mouth as he remembered Elrond's penchant for stories and their telling, even as a child. Elros had always enjoyed hearing stories, and living them, at that, more than he held the tales of others dear. This time, he tried to hold his memory of Elros with fondness rather than pain. He was not quite sure if he was successful in the end.  
  
They cut through the library to where a modestly sized study was placed to overlook the gardens and one of the great tiers of waterfalls just beyond. The windows were open, and a sweet breeze swept through to gently tease the long drapes from their places. The walls were lined with more shelves, holding a personal collection separate from the library beyond. The desk before him was piled with scrolls and missives of every sort. Maedhros glanced, and saw that most pertained to the keeping of the valley, and he felt something turn inside of him. While he knew on a logical level that his former fosterling was now a leader of others, to see it before him was something else entirely. He breathed, and felt pride fill him. It had been a long time since he had last felt such an emotion, and it took him a moment to give a name to the feeling, foreign as it first was.  
  
“Adar will be here shortly,” Elladan said, watching as his gaze swept the room, trying to linger on everything at once. “Will you be comfortable waiting for a moment?”  
  
“Yes,” Maedhros nodded. “Of course.”  
  
“We will leave you until later, then,” Elladan inclined his head. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Nelyafinwë Maitimo.”  
  
“Likewise,” Maedhros raised a brow at the younger elf's cheek, but he found only amusement returned to him as the Perelda's eyes twinkled. Elladan turned to leave, and Elrohir followed a moment later, his steps soft as he followed his brother out.  
  
Alone, Maedhros fought himself as he tried to decide whether or not to take a seat or remain standing. He sat once, arranging his tunic and cloak before standing again. He paced two steps to the left before turning sharply on his heel to pace two steps to the right again. He tried sitting a second time. He tapped his fingers against his knee, restless in his own skin.  
  
No, he decided, that would not do.  
  
Maedhros stood again, and was looking at the odds and ends on the desk when he heard the whisper of a step behind him. Though light on his feet compared to the sons of Men, there was still that every second step that fell heavier than an elven stride – something that had often betrayed the twins when they were up to mischief as children – and he recognized it now.  
  
He turned, and -  
  
\- it had been too long, was the one thought he could pick out from the sudden maelstrom of emotions and feelings that suddenly assaulted his mind. Much too long, indeed . . .  
  
When he and Maglor had left the twins to Gil-galad's care, they had been children no more, but neither were they into their majority as young adults. It was hard to judge how the Pereldar matured with their mortal blood flowing alongside that elven – but they had each been long and awkward of limb, with their faces stuck between a child's youthful roundness and an adult's more defined features. At that point, they _had_ to release the children. If they would have waited any longer, it would have been more difficult than it already was for the two to fit themselves into elven society - with all looking at them and seeing only that they had been raised and molded by the toxic hands of Kinslayers. The earlier they could get them to Gil-galad the easier it would be for them, especially when it became more than apparent that Eärendil was never returning to Endórë for the sons he had left behind.  
  
It was a pain akin to the grief he knew for each of his brothers' deaths to let the young ones go, but it was a bittersweet pain – knowing as they did that they at last did the right thing. He and Maglor had not met the twins until half a century later, during the days just following the end of the War of Wrath. The awkward children they had left behind were still not a century old, but they bore an adult's body and mind, wearing armor and holding swords centuries earlier than Maedhros and his brothers had been introduced to the art of war.  
  
. . . yet, Endórë was cruel that way, and Elrond and Elros had been forced to grow and mature faster than most.  
  
He had known pride, even then, in that small part of his mind that was not consumed by the Silmarils being so close at hand. Elros had captained his own ship in Círdan's fleet when the host of Eönwë fell upon Morgoth's forces - surviving dragonfire from above and slaying the great wyrms Morgoth had set upon the waters, while Elrond had been at Gil-galad's side on the ground – learning the extent of his healer's abilities with the constant string of soldiers who had fallen to blade and black spellwork and unnatural flame all. Maedhros regretted not being able to tell them of his pride, for he had no words within him but for Eönwë and his possession of the Silmarils from Morgoth's broken crown. He had been able to see nothing other than that, and now . . . Now, he would never have the chance to tell Elros any of his innermost thoughts, but Elrond . . .  
  
The face before him was the same in shape, even if time and wisdom had smoothed over a youth's untried lines. Though the Quendi did not age as mortals did, they still carried the weight of their uncountable years about them, and he could _feel_ the great ages of the world upon the man before him. Maedhros swallowed as he took in the familiar pale grey eyes and the black hair – Lúthien's gifts to her children, even when the strong features were of Turgon's line – Finwë's house - to a fault. He had thought himself ready for the wave of feeling he would experience at seeing his former ward (his _child_ ) again, but he was not. He felt as a fledgling tree in a strong storm, with untried roots holding him to the ground. His throat was suddenly dry. He had no words to shape his thoughts – unsure as he was of what to say . . . unsure as he was of what would be _welcomed_ by the other to hear . . .  
  
_Pacing like a caged bear_ , Elladan had said, and Maedhros clung to that, thinking that maybe, just maybe . . . Elrond regretted the shape of the years the same as he did.  
  
Elrond seemed to be struck with his same affliction of silence, at the very least. His eyes were wide and flickering – nearly disbelieving at first. Maedhros watched as they lingered on the flame of his hair, and then fell down to his two hands – _both hands_ \- before tracing the silvery scars that could still be seen on his hands and neck and face. Something flickered in the depths of his gaze before passing away, and yet Maedhros could not ask him the shape of his thoughts when he could not yet deign his own.  
  
“I believe that I now understand what the Atani mean when they say that they have grown old,” Maedhros said, at last finding his voice. “For I feel my every year now, most acutely indeed.”  
  
. . . he had so many questions at the tip of his tongue, but he could not shape them all at once. He was not sure where to begin.  
  
Elrond blinked, the cord between them snapping as he called himself to some semblance of order. “Try having the blood of Men within you,” he said wryly in reply. His voice had deepened with age. Now Maedhros heard the adult speak where he had only known the youth before. “It only intensifies the feeling.”  
  
“I can imagine,” Maedhros said, forcing a pleasant expression to his face. He struggled not to stare. “It is . . .” his voice faltered. He tried again. “Forgive me, but I am rather at a loss of what to say,” he admitted, going with blunt honesty when his words failed him. “I have much I want to say, and yet . . .”  
  
“There are no scripts for such meetings,” Elrond said, and he heard the same uncertainty in his voice that he felt within . . . uncertainty, but not anger. Instead, Elrond's gaze seemed to be as hungry as his own was. It was understandable, Maedhros thought then, for him to grow to love a child in his care. But for that child to form any sort of positive emotion for the one who had destroyed their home and pushed their parents across the sea . . . who abandoned them more than once, in more ways than one . . . He could not fathom it.  
  
He swallowed, but even as blacker emotions filled him, he felt a soft feeling of peace growing to fight the blackness away – a sensation of warmth and light. It was a healer's touch, he knew from past experience, and he looked at Elrond, wondering if the other was even consciously aware of his doing so. Probably not, he reflected, not after centuries of reflexively strengthening those around him with the light of his own spirit.  
  
He should start with an apology, Maedhros knew. He looked around for something to let his eyes rest upon, not wanting to stare like a fool. He tried to think of a way to word what he felt, but anything he could think to say came laughably short.  
  
Maedhros caught sight of a small portrait sitting on Elrond's desk – a painting of an impossibly beautiful woman, with eyes the colour of silver twilight and hair like the night itself. Maedhros blinked, for though he had never personally met Lúthien Tinúviel himself, he had seen the great portrait of her likeness in the King's chambers when . . . when they sacked Doriath, he forced himself to complete the thought. He would have thought this painting to be a miniature of the first, so uncanny was the likeness.  
  
He then remembered one tale Turgon had to tell, one that all of Aman fairly buzzed with. But where the tale was one of death and fate and the indomitable force of love to most lips, he only knew a pang at its telling, feeling the grief that the girl's father must have certainly felt at her choice – especially after a lifetime of such pains.  
  
“Your daughter . . . she looks like Lúthien,” he said, explaining his stare. He glanced down to the portrait again.  
  
“In more ways than one,” was Elrond's rueful reply. It was easier to speak of others then, he thought – and a father never needed much coaxing to speak of a favored child. “In wisdom and beauty and love all was she Lúthien's match. Arwen brightened the lives of all those she touched.”  
  
Though her death was nearly three centuries ago, Maedhros listened, and could still hear fresh blood on a wound long scabbed over in the grief of his voice. First Elros . . . and then Arwen. And he . . . he had been there for neither. He had . . .  
  
“I have been away for too long,” Maedhros muttered, not merely speaking of the days that had passed since his rembodiment. “I have missed too much.”  
  
“And yet, you are here now,” Elrond said simply in reply. And it was that simple, Maedhros realized – it always was that easy for him.  
  
He made fists of his hands. He wanted to talk about something – anything other that the weight on the air between them.  
  
“Your sons?” Maedhros threw out next, all too obvious in his diversion. “They looked strong . . . happy,”  
  
“Happy enough,” Elrond replied, allowing him his distraction. “Aman agrees with Elrohir, but not so much with Elladan. And yet, he bears through his immortal days for the sake of his twin and his family. He is with Eärendil more often than not - for he understands the heart of a Man trapped within endless days as few others can.”  
  
Elrond was quiet after saying so – thoughtful, even. Maedhros felt a pang when what was all too commonly spoken of as gossip from Tirion to Alqualondë was now revealed as a truth. That was two children who chose against their natures, he thought then - and both did so for love of others. As always, the Choice of the Pereldar was as much a burden as it was a gift, the weight of actions and their consequences once again weighing and striking in deep.  
  
“I am glad that you know pride as a father,” he said when what he wanted to say . . . what he _needed_ to say, was seemingly locked within his throat.  
  
Elrond watched him carefully as he fought with himself, that same _something_ in his eyes that he had even as a child – seeing with insights deep and wise, even though his years were tender. He read hearts much as Artanis did, and Maedhros stood there and waited for him to see what he would see. Years ago, this very thing would have unsettled him. Now he was simply glad that the other could see what he could not say.  
  
“Angmaenor,” Elrond said after a moment, and Maedhros blinked, not understanding. “It is not tradition outside of Aman to give a child two names, yet I was raised by those who still followed the old ways and Celebrían humored my wish . . . she understood. _Angmaenor_ , Elladan is also called, and _Mallangron_ , Elrohir is known by.”  
  
Maedhros' throat was suddenly very tight. His lungs hurt in his chest. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He . . .  
  
_Angmaenor . . . Mallangron_ . . . both were more elegant translations of he and Maglor's names. Maglor took the simplest name possible upon reaching Middle-earth, leaving out the _gold_ from Nerdanel's name for him and translating only the _sword_ in Sindarin, with nothing to soften the harsh translation in his own form of penance for their deeds at Alqualondë. Now his brother's name was given in full and honored. While Angmaenor was another translation of his Sindarin name, rather than either of the names his parents gave to him, such a thing was fitting, he thought. Such a thing was . . .  
  
He pressed his mouth into a line as understanding sunk in, both humbled and touched as he was in that moment.  
  
“We could not acknowledge such names publicly,” Elrond continued, understanding that he could not yet speak. “And yet, in our own home, where all understood . . .”  
  
Maedhros swallowed, and did so around a stone. His eyes burned in his face as he slowly relaxed his hands from fists. He could not . . .  
  
“You were never forgotten or cursed,” Elrond said gently. “Rather, you were mourned . . . and remembered.”  
  
Maedhros could no longer remain standing. His legs would not let him. “I missed much,” he said, taking a seat for the first. He fought against the urge to drop his head into his hands, overwhelmed as he was.  
  
“Well then, we shall have to fill in the blanks of the years you have missed,” Elrond said wryly. “Fitting is it then, that we have eternity to do so.” His voice took on a note of teasing – picking him up much the same as the warmth then touching his spirit.  
  
_Fill in the blanks_ , Maedhros thought. He did not know where to start . . . He had apologies and explanations upon his lips, but he could not force one of them from his mouth. He would not, he knew then, until he had earned the forgiveness he would seek, once he again earned the son he had in heart, if not in blood.  
  
And so, he closed his eyes, and made the plunge.  
  
“So . . . Artanis' daughter is your bride?” Maedhros forced a smile to his mouth. It was a motion that was becoming easier and easier as the days went by - growing things turning for the sun and all that, Fingon would say if he were there. At the thought, he felt the other smile against his spirit, offering him strength, and this time he accepted. He took it as his own.  
  
He leaned back in his seat, knowing a measure of contentment as he said, “It took centuries for Celeborn to coax Artan - _Galadriel_ \- into the role of wife, let alone that of a mother, and I must admit that the idea is one that boggles my mind . . . How exactly did that come about?” He wanted to know all that he had missed.  
  
And Elrond was as ready to begin as he was. He took a seat across from him, settling in for what would no doubt be a long conversation, and started his story from the beginning.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lantasírandë** : According to my _very_ choppy grasp of Quenya, this means 'valley of waterfalls'. Or it may translate to 'my blue shoe' for all of my skill with languages. But I tried. ;)
> 
>  **Mallangron** : Interesting enough, when Maglor translated his name into Sindarin, he did not carry over the 'gold'. He only kept the 'sword', and did not even add a gender specific suffix. 'Maglor' simply means 'sword-user', and nothing more than that. So I have to wonder if the blunt translation was his own form of atonement. Mallangron is the full translation of his name - once more, created with my choppy skills. 
> 
> **Angmaenor** : A more ornate version of 'Maedhros'. :)


	52. "with thoughts of flight"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Magnet, Steel_ , Free-write
> 
> This is a continuation of the story told in chapters 10, 31, and 34. We are picking up just a few months after the events in chapter 34, if you are interested in catching up on their tale so far. While I have stayed canon-compliant so far, we start to stray from that a little bit here. Well, _technically_ speaking, that is . . . unless Tolkien had something in mind that he didn't share with the rest of us. ;)

**Magnet**  
  
Outside, the snows swirled and thrashed like an angry spirit through the mountain ways. The storms were fierce, with lightning flashing through the angry clouds while the winds howled like one of Morgoth's wrathful spirits. Though the first days of spring was supposed to bring relief from the winter's angry might, the slight warming of the temperatures had done little to lift the temperature past freezing - now, they merely had ice and freezing rain to contend with alongside the snow. The storms kept even the bravest of souls indoors, turning the steep passes of mount Rerir into more perilous a home than usually they were.  
  
For the most part, his people at Lake Helevorn were content with the delay to the start of their year. They busied themselves with duties indoors; making plans to accommodate the late start they would have to their season in the fields, and rationing what supplies they did have to see everyone comfortably through until the winter broke. Sitting with him before the massive hearth in the Great Hall, his eldest brothers were already planning how the harvest at the end of the warm months would affect their supplying their troops on the front lines. Such a matter was important for more than his own people, and Caranthir was paying attention - truly he was.  
  
The wind whistled, rattling the windows in their places. He stared out the tall panes, his look darkening when he saw nothing but a mass of silver and grey where normally there was a view of the glittering black lake and the gently rolling foothills just beyond. The storms were unimpressed by his annoyance; in fact, they only seemed to pick up in intensity for the fervency of his stare.  
  
Sighing in defeat, he slumped back in his seat. He was supposed to have departed nearly a fortnight ago for Estolad, but the snow on the roadways and the frozen condition of the Gelion river made such a journey impossible to all but the most reckless – which, Caranthir was but moments away from proving himself to be. Maglor and Maedhros too had delayed their return to Himring for the severity of the winter storms, yet, unlike Caranthir, they waited through the unnaturally long winter with an unblinking patience. A month – two months, three, _ten_ – was a blinking in the eyes of an Elf, and so, he did not bother explaining his restlessness, lest it be looked on oddly in return.  
  
He had only told Haleth to look for him with the coming of the spring. He made no promises; he had fixed no dates. And yet . . . he did not want her to think that he so easily cast thought of her aside. He did not want her to think that he saw only her few years - her people as a sapling trying to grow amongst rocky soil, his interest waning when they turned his offer of aid and tenantship on his lands aside. Even if he gained nothing by helping the Haladin, help he still wished to provide, and yet, she would not know that as long as the winter kept him confined to his place.  
  
And . . . it _hurt_ , more than anything else, the idea that she was somewhere in the world, thinking ill of him. It twisted at his stomach and prickled at his skin, and no matter how much he tried, he could not get the feeling to fade. He could not force his thoughts to still. He felt drawn to her as the moon tugged on the tide, and his spirit was oddly restless in the shell of his body with every day that kept him from her. He could not . . .  
  
Frustrated, he furrowed his brow and tried once more to pay attention to Maedhros' words. This was more important than any fascination he had with the new settlement at Estolad, and he had to -  
  
The quill he was using snapped from the pressure of his fingers, and ink splattered up to dot the front of his tunic. He knocked the well of ink over when he moved to clean the first mess, and he bit back a curse as he went to mop the black puddle up. Maedhros stopped speaking long enough to raise a scarlet brow, and Caranthir did not look up to see the glance he traded with Maglor – he could imagine it well enough.  
  
“Perhaps,” Maedhros said dryly, “We should continue these talks in the morning.”  
  
“I am not so sure,” Maglor responded wryly, “I fear that the storms will still be waging come tomorrow, and I have no wish to risk more defenseless quills in Caranthir's hands.”  
  
. . . perhaps he did not hide his restlessness as well as he thought he did, Caranthir acknowledged with a grimace. He was deluding himself to think his thoughts and motives secret in the first place.  
  
Maedhros gave an audible sigh, and gathered together the scrolls and maps he had set out on the table between them. He left with little more than a nod, and Maglor let him go. Caranthir narrowed his eyes, knowing that Maedhros left to ensure that he would confide in Maglor if he would not speak to them both – for his love of his first was coupled with an awe and solemn respect more so than adoration and comfortable ease. Ever instead had he found that ease with Maglor.  
  
Maglor waited for one moment, and then two. Yet Caranthir did not give him the satisfaction of speaking right away, instead cutting the tip of a new quill away with an exaggerated precision. The effect was ruined by the tips of his fingers still being shadowed by spilled ink.  
  
“You,” Maglor said slowly, “have been restless the whole winter through.” His voice was warm and melodious - coaxing, unconsciously threaded with power. Behind him, the fire in the hearth crackled and popped in counterpoint to his words, answering to the song he uttered even when speaking.  
  
Caranthir shrugged. “I am every winter,” he said nonchalantly. “I do detest being confined indoors.”  
  
“So I see,” Maglor said. Caranthir considered shaving his eyebrow in his sleep if he did not cease raising it at him. For a moment, the thought brought him comfort. “The lands are warmer to the south-west,” he continued in a careful voice. “You spent most of the last year there, or so I heard.”  
  
Caranthir set his jaw. “The hunting was good this year,” he gave with a shrug, “It is true.”  
  
“A hunting for Atani maids?” Maglor finally asked outright. Caranthir darted a glare at his brother, the orange light from the fire dancing over them both.  
  
“I have aided Haleth of the Haladin, it is true,” he answered, knowing that anything else would be viewed as a deflection. “I would not call that a _hunt_ , though. There were Orcs on my land, and now there are not. It is no more than what any of us would do – what _you_ would have done in my place.”  
  
“I see,” Maglor said slowly. Caranthir studiously avoided looking his way, even when he could feel the pointed weight of his stare. “Yet, the Haladin have dwelt on your lands for nearly thirty years.” Maglor remarked. “You did not care for their troubles before.”  
  
“Do not worry,” Caranthir said ruefully, “I will be no Finrod in my dealings with the Men.” He fought back an old wave of distaste for his uncle's sons, and then continued, “I simply had my eyes opened during the battle and the days after. I first viewed the sons of Men as little more than beasts of the field – limited by their days and quickly passing through anything of interest to me. Yet . . . I was arrogant in my assumptions. They are a young race, but a race with potential once they grow into themselves. They are strong for all that nature has said they should not be, and their determination is more than enough to make up for any shortcoming of their years . . . I found a new respect for them, and any aid I offered was in part to make amends for the years I stood idly by. The Haladin took a grievous blow with the Orc raids, and if I had acted sooner, their numbers would be four . . . _five_ times what they are now.”  
  
Maglor stared at him, and this time Caranthir looked up, forcing himself to meet his brother's eyes. There was a curiosity in his gaze, an understanding, as well . . . nearly sad in shape. He narrowed his own gaze in challenge for seeing so.  
  
“You care for her,” Maglor said. There was a statement in his words, rather than a question.  
  
He had to fight to keep his face neutral. “Do not jest, Makalaurë, it does not suit you.” Even so, a warm lance of feeling pierced through him – which was even more disconcerting than his brother's words. He swallowed.  
  
Maglor's look softened in reply. “Carnistir,” he said, and the warmth in his voice made something tight settle about his throat. “Do you have feelings for this woman?”  
  
At first, denial was sharp and pointed on his tongue. He could feel his face flush and his eyes narrow, and yet . . .  
  
His stomach twisted as he remembered his first sight of her: freeing her long hair from her battered helm, and looking on him as if he were another foe of the field to face. _Child_ , he had called her, asking for her to show him to her lord. Now, he could imagine no one greater in her place, and his words brought only a flicker of amusement in retrospect. He then remembered laughing with her as she struggled with learning his tongue . . . finding empathy for her trials as she shared with him the story of her people . . . experiencing _her_ understanding when he whispered of his Oath and sins. He thought of her eyes sparkling as she awkwardly played the role of courtly lady with his dwarven guests, remembering how the candlelight threw dancing patterns on her skin as she smiled like the girl she had never had a chance to be, and . . .  
  
_Carnistir_ , she had breathed, her deep voice catching on the syllables of his name and pouring them like something molten for the way they burned his spirit. His heart ached in his chest, and a dull light clung to his skin as his fëa unconsciously answered the shape of his thoughts, his spirit having long decided before his mind consciously made his choice, and . . .  
  
He could not utter a reply. He could not find the words, stunned and stupid as he was in response to his own thoughts. _No_ , he could only think. He did not . . . he _could_ not . . . He would not be so _stupid_.  
  
Once, long ago, he had thought to find and know love in Aman, following after Eldalótë with star-struck eyes and hesitant words of devotion on his lips. He had been awkward and cumbersome with his more tender emotions, and she had not seen them for what they truly were. She had seen only his temper when his frustration overwhelmed everything else, and had not of the want or will to deal with the hard lines of his character. When she accepted his cousin Angrod's suit, he had fallen into a black cast of spirits – nearly doing Curufin a real harm (his brother was over a century younger than him, and yet, he was already expecting a child with his wife) when he dared laugh and jest meanly over his unluckiness in love. It had been Celegorm who had pulled them apart with an odd understanding in his eyes, pushing Curufin away with sharp words on his tongue to match. Afterward, Maglor had picked him up in his easy way – explaining that love was ever found in pairs, one finding another where the One had divided their souls at their births. If her soul did not match his own, then he was only saving himself the heartache of an unequal bond.  
  
_An unequal bond_ , he now thought without humor. This was a true joke in the eyes of the One; a true punishment for his deeds of old. If Haleth had been elven, he knew that it would not have taken him so long to know his own thoughts. He would have considered himself blessed - for she bore her own hard lines of spirit, yet, rather than cutting against each other, they soothed each other like the fierce current of white river would sooth the jagged stones beneath. And now . . .  
  
He swallowed, his breath suddenly thick in his throat.  
  
“Carnistir,” Maglor gave his name on a sigh, understanding even before he answered. He shook his head, still trying to deny the shape of his thoughts.  
  
“No,” Caranthir protested, his voice dry from his throat. “The idea is . . .” _silly . . . preposterous . . . ridiculous . . ._ Even as he thought so, something inside of him turned alight with the thought. Something within him _soared_ , and he had to work to breathe around the sudden light flaring up from his spirit.  
  
“Be careful,” Maglor said, his voice taking on a note of worry more than warning. “Perhaps, it would be best to keep your distance -”  
  
“ - because she is mortal?” the words were hissed from his mouth. His fëa, already so close to the surface of his skin, spiked sharply in unison with his words.  
  
“Precisely,” Maglor answered, unfazed by his temper. “And yet, not in the way you would think. I doubt not the lady's worth or strength of character – for you would not be drawn to anything less, and it would take a strong spirit to wrestle such a command over the Atani, especially with their views on their woman kind.” He was silent for a moment, clearly thinking on how best to phrase his words. “And yet . . . she is mortal, with a mortal's allotment of years.”  
  
He clenched his teeth. For a moment, something inside of him _hurt_ at the thought.  
  
And Maglor continued. “You may think you love her – you may actually _truly_ love her, and yet . . . is that love strong enough to watch her grow old? To watch her age and whither away?” He was merciless in the frank cast of his words, and to hear them spoken was akin to suffering a blow. “I do not want to see you have to bear through such a thing.”  
  
Caranthir swallowed, the cheerful crackling of he fire sounding like white noise in his ears. Beyond him, the storm struck and spun, matching the turbulence in his heart.  
  
“And,” Maglor continued, “If your love for her _is_ strong enough to endure watching her age . . . is it strong enough to endure her death? Will you be able to handle such a sundering in your spirit, knowing not the fate of Men when they die? Such a parting is impossible for some elven couples, and in this instance . . . Please . . . I do not think that I could watch you fade to follow her.”  
  
Caranthir moved his mouth, but he could not force a sound to emerge. What he wanted to say: _She has_ _known_ _my_ _sins_ _and_ _heard_ _my vows,_ _yet she_ _has not shunned me . . . Her words are frank to me, and wise for the short span of her days. I grow in her presence, I learn, and I am a better man for_ _knowing her . . ._ _My spirit all but sings when she is near, and it is painful to think of anything else than giving into that tug . . . She knows my name,_ my name _, and_ _I want_ _. . ._  
  
“You are able to survive being parted from Nyarissë,” he said on a low whisper, hating his words even as he said them, “even though you would rather not be. You are proof that such a sundering can be survived.”  
  
For a long moment, Maglor did not speak. “Then let me say only that it is an agony greater than any physical pain that can be inflicted on the body, to be parted from one your very soul is bound to,” Maglor's warm grey eyes were shadowed as he remembered the wife he had left behind in Aman. “And yet, _I_ left her for sake of my own pride and Oath; death did not take her from me. I left her willingly, and if the One is kind I shall meet her again . . . though I know not if she will ever have me in return. But at least I have the _possibility_ of that reunion. I have the idea of _someday_ to hold onto, while you . . .”  
  
This would be permanent. Final. _Forever_. Even to his immortal mind, such a concept was difficult to grasp.  
  
Caranthir took in a deep breath. He let it out slow. “I shall use caution,” was all that he would say – it was all he _could_ say when he now had much to think on. Much to consider. “And yet,” he acknowledged with a pang greater than thinking of her end to come, “It does not matter what I think. The lady in question finds me disagreeable, harsh, and arrogant. There is not much use in defining my own heart when I know her own well enough.”  
  
Maglor raised a brow. “She is not entirely wrong,” he said, a note of teasing in his voice that Caranthir could not help but smile sadly for. “And yet . . .” he thought about saying something more before clearly deciding against it. He shook his head. “Only . . . be careful,” Maglor entreated him one last time. “That is all I ask.”  
  
Caranthir could not speak in reply to his words. Instead, he looked down at the broken quill in his hands, running the tip of his callused thumb over the severed edge with a restless fascination.  
  
Maglor inclined his head sharply, and leaned forward to set aside his own scrolls. “Now,” he said, a forced cheerfulness to his voice. “I have been working on a new composition whilst stranded here. Would you like to hear it?”  
  
Caranthir set the broken quill aside. “I would,” he said, meaning his words. As Maglor retrieved his harp, he leaned back in his seat by the fire, letting nothing but his brother's song and the storm beyond fill his mind. For a moment, he thought of nothing more.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
****

**Steel**  
  
The spring was slow to come that year.  
  
The winter lingered on the plains, hanging grey and cold over their heads for weeks longer than it should have. The fierce season wreaked havoc on their new dwellings, and delayed the building they had planned to complete with the first warm days the year. Now the ground was muddy and thick with snow melt, and yet, the first promise of warmth whispered on the breeze. All in Estolad moved with vigor and renewed spirits as they cast aside the winter and prepared for their first full year in their new home.  
  
With the first month of more sedate temperatures, they were able to repair the damage the winter storms had done to the stables, and finished the building in whole as they could not the fall before. Haleth stood critically before the racks that held the tack, trying to remember _exactly_ how the stables at Lake Helevorn had been laid. It was clever and practical of the elves, she had thought then, and now . . .  
  
She moved the stand of bridles into its new place with more force than was strictly necessary, annoyed with the turn of her thoughts. The winter was fierce over the flat lands – she could only imagine how the storms would have raged in the mountains. A delay on his part was to be expected, and -  
  
_He owes nothing to you_ , she reminded herself. _You cast aside his offer of aid when he gave it, and told him more than once that you need nothing of him. Why are you now surprised when he is eager to be rid of you? Do not search the horizon for him; do not wait for him at all. It is only pain you court._  
  
Still . . . Haleth set about moving the saddles next, sure than Caranthir's people had arranged theirs like so . . .  
  
_Just in case he honor_ _s_ _his promise to come_ , she told herself. Her cheeks flushed for her own censure. _Just . . . in case._  
  
“You have moved those same saddles five times now,” came an amused voice from the entrance to the tack-room. “The horse-master is starting to think that he has done something wrong to earn so much of your attention.”  
  
Haleth looked up to see her brother's widow with a raised brow and sharp eyes that saw too much. Taemes was a tall woman, built slim and straight like a reed – more like the woman of Bëor in comparison to the shorter and curved woman of the Haladin. Her eyes were brown and observant, and her hair was a shade of the earth to match, smartly bound away from her face in deference to the tasks of the day. In the stalls beyond, she could hear a child's laughter, and knew that her nephew had coaxed his mother away from her work to visit the horses again, eager for riding now that the ground was drying for him to do so.  
  
“I had explicit instructions for the design of the stables,” Haleth said in explanation, moving a now damp strand of hair back from her face. “I want to prove that I was paying attention.”  
  
“You place a lot of stock in his opinion,” Taemes observed.  
  
Haleth shrugged, not liking the look her good-sister leveled at her. “When it comes to horses, yes I do,” she gave with a wry look.  
  
Taemes did not smile at her flippant words as she would have hoped. If anything, she looked unsure for a moment – and that, more than anything else, caused a stab of worry to rise in her gut. Taemes was never anything but forthright, and that quality was one she appreciated in the other woman - her friend since girlhood. While the Haladin were a tough, hardy folk - their woman working the fields alongside the men, and each skilled with the small knives they kept about the belts of their kirtles - Haleth still surpassed her companions in want for sport and hunt. Rather than offending her delicate sensibilities, Taemes had only ever been amused and accepting of her character. Haleth had counted herself as blessed when her brother finally worked up the courage to ask her longtime friend for her hand, and even now that her twin had passed on, she counted herself as fortunate that Taemes was there to share his memory with her.  
  
“I do not know how to say this,” Taemes started, hesitant with her words. If she was any other woman, Haleth believed that she would have wrung her hands in the fabric of her dress. Instead, Taemes only stared levelly at her, a flickering in her eyes the only sign of her discomfort.  
  
Haleth raised a brow in reply. “Speaking plainly is oftentimes the best way,” she encouraged. “Or, at least, I have always tried to do so myself - for better or ill, which you know well of me.”  
  
Again, Taemes did not rise to her attempt to lighten the shadow on her brow. She worked her jaw once, twice, and then she said, “It has been whispered that you put much weight into the thoughts and opinions of the Elf-lord . . . it is whispered that it is not Haleth Haldad's daughter who leads the Haladin . . . but rather, the Fëanorian . . . there are murmurs, especially from those who were ill at ease for you taking the title of Chieftess to begin with.”  
  
Haleth set her jaw as she arranged the rack of saddle blankets to her content. She let her fingers rest against the rough wool as she said, “Who has voiced such whispers?”  
  
Taemes' face flushed. “Hathor has said -”  
  
At that Haleth turned, a dark look on her face, “I have told Hathor on several occasions that marrying my brother's widow does not give him a say in the running of our people. He is doing right by you, and for that I respect him, but he is no more of my father's blood than any other of the vultures who watch for me to falter – and I will not hear of him speaking so again.”  
  
Taemes looked down. “He means well,” she said, but her words were thin to her own ears. For a long moment, there was silence between them. “I . . . we have not spoken much of this, mainly because I do not know the words to say. Yet . . . I want you to know that I loved your brother dearly . . . I still do.”  
  
At that, Haleth's ire softened. She forced herself to smile – for the Orc raids had left few of their families untouched in their wake. Taemes had her son and no husband, while Hathor had lost his wife, and had two young daughters to raise on his own. They fit, even when they would rather have that which they had lost. “And Haldar would have wanted you provided for,” Haleth tried to assure Taemes that she did not blame her for her choice. “You will need a husband to work the fields, and Haldan needs a father. I . . . I understand. Haldar would understand too.”  
  
Haleth swallowed. With the spring, her brother and father were a year dead, and sometimes, their loss still did not seem quite real. She breathed out with her pain, and pushed it aside. As she always did.  
  
“Yet, Hathor is not the only one who thinks this way,” Taemes continued grimly. “I know how much stock you put into leading our people, and how much your role means to you. I would not want to see you forced aside with your fondness for the elf blinding you to the concerns of your people.”  
  
Haleth hissed out a breath through her nose. “For a man may lead and have a family at once, for it is assumed that his wife will do little more than mind the children and his house without giving voice to the opinions that the One put into her mind. Yet, if a woman _dares_ to give into the simple urgings of nature and seek a family of her own, she is not to be trusted – for obviously her chosen man will be the true leader of her people with his whispering into her ear. Eru forbid if I ever give into the natural want for a child! I could not possibly lead and be a mother at once then, could I?”  
  
An old, angry wound opened with Taemes words. Haleth flushed with both anger and frustration for her outburst. Taemes already knew her thoughts, and her temper would get her nowhere. She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, musing her braid even further.  
  
“Not that it matters,” Haleth amended her words with a note of self-deprecating humor. “I speak with nothing more than the bitterness of an old maid.”  
  
And that was true . . . even before her father's death, she had few suitors eager for her hand. She was plain of face and strong of hand, better with a sword than working a spinning wheel. Her mother had died with her birth, and her father had raised her the best he could on his own. He had taught her side by side with her brother, yet in those lessons was not the proper way to mind a house or raise a child. Instead she was taught to read and write and form her own opinions, to hold shield and sword, and solve disputes of land while balancing the needs of the whole alongside those of the few. None of her skills were those a man sought in his goodwife. She was grateful for her father's lessons, for Haldad's influence had crafted her into the woman she now was. And yet, there were times . . . she had watched as prettier, more genteel girls were snatched up by the eligible men of their people. At first, it had been her peers, and then girls younger and even younger still than her were claimed as brides while she stood still, watching . . . waiting . . . Now she was years older than the typical age for marriage, and unable to indulge a suitor even if she wanted to. Though she told herself that she did not care . . . that she did not _need_ a husband, that she did not _need_ a child to call her own . . . sometimes, the thought still brought with it an ache of its own.  
  
Haleth pursed her mouth, trying to smile. “I should be glad that I was not already wed when my father fell. I would have had no hope for claiming my title then. The One ensured my singleness as a blessing.” And she believed those words to be true . . . most of the time.  
  
Taemes was not as fooled as she. Haleth fought the urge she had to turn away from her knowing stare. “It is a hard, unfair world we live in; this the Haladin know better than most. And yet . . . not once, in all of your words, did you deny that you _want_.”  
  
Right on cue, her face flushed. Haleth felt as her heart did a peculiar sort of movement in her chest. “I did not have to say it, for it does not even bear speaking. It is so obviously impossible.” The words stuck to her tongue. She felt as if she was speaking around a knife with their uttering. “He is elf-kind; I am mortal. He shall live to see the vast ages of the world unfold, while I will try to do what I can in the few years I have given to me. I . . . I will take advantage of his wisdom, but I know better than to seek anything more than that.” She snorted, fondness touching her voice where she had not intended for it. “And, besides the barrier of our races, I have never met one more entitled and arrogant than he! I want to hit him more often than not . . . and yet . . .” Then he would speak about his Oath with sorrow in his eyes . . . or whisper his real name to her . . . He would stare at her while she danced as if she was something lovely to behold, and she would . . .  
  
Haleth shook her head, frustrated with her thoughts.  
  
“No one would fault you for thinking so. He is beautiful,” Taemes commented grudgingly. “Something you can't find outside of a dream, many have noted.”  
  
Haleth set her mouth, the wave of jealousy, and worse – _possessiveness_ , that pierced through her when she imagined other woman noticing what she had tried not to . . . it only bode ill for her, and she did not like the implications of her self-awareness. “And there you have it,” she forced a note of humor into her voice, “I could never seriously court a man who has better hair than I.”  
  
Taemes gave a snort of amusement, which she could not keep from turning into a full bellied peal of laughter. Haleth was unable to keep from joining her in her mirth, feeling lighter then than she had in days. She felt cleansed with doing so, letting a coil inside of her unfurl and release its tension. She let her dreams and wishes go, and thought only of what she had before her that she could touch. She made steel of her thoughts and stone of her heart. The spring beyond seemed more real then, tangible, even.  
  
“I am Haleth of the Haladin,” she tossed her head, meaning her words even as she spoke them. “I will want or bow to none. I do not need a man to toil the day through while I cook and clean and tend to his crying brats day in and day out. I will not have to put through his attempts at conversation while he drinks away the night – after which he may or may not force me to suffer underneath his bulk while he tries to give me yet another child to tend to, only to rise long before the sun to do it all over again. No. I will be my own person, and make my own way, free of any other.”  
  
Taemes was still trying to hold back her laughter. “You are unfair to this poor man you have concocted in your mind,” she rolled her eyes. “And what a dark picture you paint of family life! It is a wonder than any ever wed or bear children! I can inform you, good-sister, that there is nothing more rewarding than tending to a baby's cries . . . and there is no _suffering_ to be found in a marriage bed unless the man is particularly inept.”  
  
That only brought their laughter anew. “I shall have to take your word for it,” Haleth shook her head, calling herself back to order. “For now I will content myself with building a home for our people. This will all be your son's someday, and I wish to leave something great and worthy for Haldan to lead. My life shall be nothing more than building his legacy, for which I shall know nothing but contentment and pride.”  
  
In that, there was meaning and worth enough to be found. Haleth pushed aside thoughts of anything else, and grasped her determination to keep them there. Her resolve as as steel; unbending and unmovable.  
  
As if hearing his name, Haldan ran into the tack-room. The boy was almost eleven summers now, and he had seen a growth-spurt over the winter. He looked more and more like her brother with each passing day, Haleth could not help but think, forcing herself to remember Haldar with fondness over grief.  
  
“The horse-master said that the yard is dry enough for me to take my pony out!” Haldan exclaimed, his words jumbled with a youth's excitement. “May you take me, aunt Haleth?” he looked between his mother and her. “You said that you would show me how the elves ride without tack in the spring, and it is spring now.”  
  
“I would like nothing better,” Haleth was helpless to deny him. “While we are not able to feel the souls of the animals as the elves do, there is an unspoken language that we can still learn to speak. Master that, and you will have a faithful mount to carry you through anything.”  
  
Haldan fairly bounced on his feet at her words, looking from her to the stalls just beyond. “Can we start now?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” she answered, looking around the tack-room for anything she had missed. “And yet – just a moment.” She turned and moved the rack of bridles over one last time. She forced her hands to her sides then, telling herself that everything was perfect. Even _he_ would have nothing to say but to commend.  
  
She looked, and found that Taemes was watching her with a raised brow. Haleth then understood that all of her strong words had amounted to nothing. Her good-sister was not convinced.  
  
And so, Haleth set her jaw, and looked at her nephew. “Now then,” she said to the child, ignoring the other woman's stare. “Let's fetch your pony, and we will see what we shall see.”


	53. "into the bittersweet and strange"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Opaque, Translucent, Transparent_ , Free-write
> 
> This chapter directly follows the events of the last one, and continues the story told in chapters 10, 31, and 34. While it is not necessary to read those first, it would make some references in this chapter clearer. That said, I thank you for reading and hope you enjoy. :)

**Opaque  
  
** By the time Caranthir reached Estolad, spring had finally chased the winter from the earth. The wide grasslands were in full bloom; the tips of their waving blades spotted with seeds and small white flowers, feeding both the earth below and the birds soaring above the plains. The few small trees that dotted the land in hardy thickets bore pink and white buds between their newly unfurling leaves, filling the air with a floral fragrance whenever the wind swept forth to ruffle their branches.  
  
The air was still cool when he started his journey, yet the weather hesitantly warmed in a foregleam of summer by the time he arrived. He was as restless as the grey stallion who bore him, and he traveled faster on the winding roads than perhaps was wise due to the thrill of the season and anticipation of his destination. His horse did not seem to mind the pace set upon him, for the harsh weather had trapped him inside of his stall, much the same as Caranthir had been frustrated by his time stuck indoors. The grey now tossed his head and snorted whenever Caranthir tried to check their progress, chomping his teeth at the bit in his mouth and attempting to make his own wat whenever they slowed to a walk.  
  
At long last, after cresting one last large and rolling hill, Caranthir looked down to see the lands of the Atani stretched out before him. The human settlements of Estolad were nestled against the crook of the hills, built just out of the way of the strong wind that ever swept over the plains. He looked down, seeing a wall encompassing a small village of longhouses and various other structures with thatched roofs. Beyond the walls, farmsteads and small hamlets dotted the land, stretching south as far as the eye could see. Newly cultivated fields blanketed the land, adorning it with wheat and corn and rye. Beyond the farmer's fields, herds of sheep and cows and horses dotted the hills aplenty, and he nodded in satisfaction to see that their flocks were already twice that which the Haladin had left Thargelion with – even after the harsh winter taking its tolls on the new yearlings. On the eastern side of the settlement was the thin beginnings of a wooded land - which would pick up after the Celon river and form the great forests of Doriath beyond. To the far north, beyond the remaining Marachites and Bëorians, was a distant smearing of trees upon the horizon, visible only to his elven eyes. The human settlements stopped long before that, he knew, for those woods had a foul enchantment about them, and even the Men knew better than to venture into the haunted ways of Nan Elmoth.  
  
To the north-east of the Haladin's setup were the older buildings used by Bëor's people before he followed Finrod to the lands closer to Nargothrond, on the eastern side of Doriath. While many had left with their lord, many were those who stayed and merged together with those remaining of Marach's people. Due to Mankind's quick rate of supplementing their numbers, their populace was already teeming compared to the few hundred who had first settled the land.  
  
As if to reinforce his thinking so, he rode down from the crest of the hill to be immediately surrounded by activity on all sides. The Men were a busy folk, ever pointed with their hurrying to and fro on some business or another. Few looked his way, and those who did only blinked for a moment before moving on. He was not the first Elf to come and gawk over the sons of Men, he imagined with some amusement, and his kind were not unknown in these parts.  
  
As he entered the open gates of the Haladin's portion of Estolad, the more apparent it became that a celebration of some sorts was underway. It took him a moment, but he soon realized that the Men he passed were wearing their festive best, and many of the woman had flowers and ribbons plaited into their hair. Sounds of a harper and flutist reached his ears over the low pulse of a far off drum, even as he saw a group of strapping lads move barrels of wine and ale to the meadhall standing tall and prominent within the city ways. Smoke billowed from the thatched rooftop, and the smell of roasting venison and mutton was already rich and mouthwatering on the air. In the square of the encampment, a maypole had been erected, and children laughed and sang as they wound the ribbons together.  
  
“Your lady? Where may I find her?” he stopped and asked one of the young men returning from his task, and the boy nodded sharply over his shoulder in reply.  
  
“Behind you,” the youth said, and Caranthir turned quicker than he would have liked to in reply.  
  
Even though he had spent the whole of his journey roping his erstwhile feelings and hopeless attraction back underneath his control, his heart still did a strange sort of motion in his chest as he drank in sight of her. He had steeled himself as if for battle for meeting her once more, and he had thought to find mastery over his emotions. And yet, if he had fooled himself into thinking that the months apart had prepared him - or lessened his feelings with reasons of logic and common-sense - he was mistaken . . . highly mistaken indeed.  
  
Caring little for what his rational mind ordered, his eyes were not sure where to look first - at her smoky blue eyes, or the long tumble of her wheat-brown hair. Each freckle seemed to call for his attention as he took in the curious state of her attire – for she too was dressed in her best. Haleth wore a burnt orange band of cloth around her forehead, decorated with golden thread and small white flowers. Where he had seen her in a dress once before when she visited his people, she now wore one in the style of mankind – with a warm beige underdress and a kirtle with a pleated skirt overtop, dyed the same rich orange and copper of her headband. Her only ornamentation was the bronze broach at her chest, shaped in a three-folded knot, and the ring of mithril the Dwarves had given her. He blinked, surprised as he took her in. He felt acutely aware of his own appearance in that moment, dusty and stained as he was by the road. He fought the urge he had to shuffle on his feet – even when she bore the barest of smiles for his arrival.  
  
Haleth flushed when she caught his stare, he noticed – he noticed and forced himself not to think on. She cleared her throat, and immediately went to speak against the odd sort of weight that had settled on the air between them. “Word travels quickly here,” she said rather than greeting him. “You were not even past the gates before tongues were wagging as if to spread fire.”  
  
“I did not think an elf with staring eyes would be all that uncommon in Estolad,” he replied in kind, noticing then how one passing gaze pretended not to watch them, and then two. “At the very least, I am not Finrod with his wide and gaping gaze.”  
  
Haleth sighed, but there was fondness in the exhale, he was nearly sure.  
  
“Either way,” he said, gesturing behind him. “I have come bearing gifts for your new settlement. Alas, I was . . . impatient, and arrived here before the carts and mules. Yet, they should be only a day or two at most behind me.”  
  
He waited, expecting a jape for his lack of patience and restless ways. He did not expect for her to sigh again. For a moment, he thought that she looked weary. “You need not bring me anything more than you have already given me,” she said. He frowned to hear the tight undertone in her voice.  
  
“I need not, it is true,” he answered, his voice turning neutral out of wariness. “And yet, I want to. If such a thing unsettles you, you may tell yourself that they are for your people – supplies and things of the like. As a host, you are to suffer the whims of a guest, or have the Atani not yet grown to master such a base rule of etiquette?”  
  
He watched, and saw where she fought not to smile. Haleth forced the look away, once again darting a glance to those watching them. The eyes fixed on them grew, Caranthir noted, and he unconsciously took a step back from her in reply. Haleth too followed his eyes, and when she turned the white flowers in her hair fell forward to touch the bronzed skin of her neck. He held himself still against the sudden urge he had to step forward and touch where the bloom laid. Suddenly, he was glad for the extra space he had put between them.  
  
Caranthir let out a breath, and this time he knew that he had to explain his staring when Haleth looked back and caught him again. “You look . . . nice,” he said, his tongue tangling over the word in a horrible way. He fought the urge he had to scowl for his inadequate words.  
  
Haleth, however, did not seem to notice his ungraceful mouth, looking down and flushing as she did. She worried her hands in the fabric of her skirt as she would not in jerkin and vambrace. “I have a wedding to attend this eve,” she said in explanation for her garb.  
  
Caranthir felt a lance of something hot and horrified pierce through him at her words, which he tried in vain to keep from his face. Haleth only saw his eyes widening in surprise, and she shook her head quickly. She took a step forward, destroying the barrier he had unconsciously erected between them. “No, not my own,” she was quick to assure him. Her eyes flickered down for a moment, taken by some emotion that had nothing to do with him, he thought. “It is my sister's . . . or, my good-sister's, I mean to say.”  
  
And, for that, Caranthir was truly confused. “Your brother's widow?” he made sure that he understood. When she did not move to correct him, he furrowed his brow in puzzlement. “I do not understand, how does she marry again?”  
  
Haleth gave a frown to match his own, not understanding his reason for bewilderment. “Two unwed parties wish to pledge their troth together,” she said slowly. “I am unsure where the confusion lies.”  
  
“But she was _married_ ,” Caranthir repeated, as if that should have meant everything. He did not understand how it could not.  
  
“And now she is married no more,” Haleth returned. “Death sundered Taemes' vow to Haldar. She is free to wed again.”  
  
Caranthir stared at her for a moment, floored by the ease of which she spoke of casting the memory of one mate aside for another. Death . . . any parting was but a small bend in the road two souls chose to take together throughout eternity. Death meant _nothing_ where two spirits were bound, and _loved_. He could not understand . . . and yet . . . she was human, and the Atani did not have the Quendi's luxury of time and bonds of the soul. He felt a sinking weight fill him, even though he told himself that feeling so was unfair to her. She was ignorant to the turn his heart had taken while he was away, and he had no reason to resent his emotions turning to frustration and hopelessness when that was all he should have let himself feel in the first place. She did not . . . she _could not_ understand the forever he wanted from a partner, and now, to see the perplexed look grow on her face caused a black and hurt feeling to rise up to settle around his throat . . . one he could not properly explain to himself, let alone to her.  
  
“Does she love him?” his voice turned tight as he asked his question. Haleth's brow narrowed in warning, she understanding the signs of his temper well after their time spent together.  
  
“The man she marries is strong,” she avoided answering him outright. “He will give her son a father, and she will give his daughters a mother. He will work the land, and maybe even give her another child to raise. Love has nothing to do with it; Hathor is the husband she needs.”  
  
“But he is not the one she _wants_ ,” his last word came out cutting, and her own eyes darkened in reply.  
  
“She cannot have the one she _wants_ ,” Haleth snapped. “And neither can Hathor.”  
  
“So, she would turn her back on the memory of her husband and sell herself like a sack of grain?” he gave an incredulous snort of laughter. “I did not realize that you chose your mates the same as picking a head of cattle from a flock, looking for strength and breeding before ties of the heart. Forgive me for my ignorance.”  
  
Her eyes widened, as if shocked by his words, before she scowled in true anger. “Perhaps the Eldar are too old to remember the simple courtesies of a _guest_ , but if you came here only to insult me and mine, then you can go back the way you came. I do not need your words here.”  
  
Caranthir gave a stiff bow, mocking in shape. The black feeling inside of him grew, as toxic and choking as miasma. This time, he did not try to force it away. “I thank-you, my lady, for so clearly reminding me of our differences. It was a needed revelation.”  
  
He still had the reins of his horse in hand. He had not even made it to the stables before they started quarreling, he thought with a sour flash of annoyance. Not looking at her, he swung himself back into the saddle again. Ignoring both her and the eyes of everyone in the square who had stopped to stare at them outright, he turned his back and rode out through the gates again.  
  
. . . of course, he did not make it far. He could not, when to turn back for the Blue Mountains was to stretch the cord in his heart until snapping - for which he was not nearly ready. Instead he wandered, going only as far as the wooded shade of trees that started to appear west of the city walls. The feasting from beyond had spilled out from the confines of the meadhall, and many of the smallfolk were dancing and rejoicing in a clearing in the trees where there was room enough to do so. He listened to the cheering and the shouts of well wishes for the bride and groom, and felt his brow darken for the loveless marriage that was celebrated that day.  
  
As night fell, he finally stopped his horse by a creek that parted the trees and unsaddled the tired animal. He let the stallion graze while he laid down on the cool rocks by the bubbling water, staring up at the stars peeking down from the trees as he prepared himself for night, until -  
  
“I understand that I have offered you insult, and yet, I am not sure how I have done so.”  
  
Caranthir looked up, seeing where Haleth had come from the direction of the celebration just beyond. He narrowed his eyes, but she only raised one of her own in reply. “Come now,” she brushed his ill mood aside as if he was nothing more than a sulking child. “If you did not wish to make amends with me, you would not have settled so close for the night.”  
  
The moonlight dappling down through the trees slicked over her in rippling patterns as she came closer to him. To his eyes, she was a creature more elemental than fey as she walked towards him, her step falling in time with the song of the creek rather than the harper's reel just beyond. He had to fight the tightening in his chest as she took a seat on the stone next to him, ever easy as she was in the face of his darker emotions. She looked down at her hands as she waited for him to speak, and her hair fell forward over her shoulder in a dark wave with the motion. He stared, and then blinked.  
  
When he finally moved to sit upright, a small, pleased smile appeared on her face – nearly triumphant in shape. “Now,” she smoothed her skirts over her knees in a decided manner. “Where was such an offense in my words taken?”  
  
“It was not anything you said, per say,” he said, for truly, it was not. “Rather, this subject is an old wound to my family; an ancient source of many pains, and I took that out on you. For that, I am sorry.” He had touched on the marriage of Finwë and Indis before, and knew that she would think of that now.  
  
Haleth was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, even. “I take it that your kind does not marry twice? I did not realize how absolute that was when you told your story before.”  
  
“No, we do not marry twice . . .” he shook his head, wondering how best to phrase what he wanted to say. “Marriage as we know it is more than simply living together, loving each other . . . Marriage is existing _completely_ through another person. It is a bond of souls in the most literal of senses.”  
  
“That sounds terribly romantic,” Haleth said dryly, her eyes flickering as she remembered what he had told her about the more fey ways of his people - the way he could feel shadows of his brothers in the deepest part of his soul, no matter the distance parting them. In life, Fëanor had been such an ember at the core of his spirit, and even now there was a coolness of ashes where his presence still remained. “And yet," she continued carefully, "while I understand why you would not separate from such a tie in life . . . would death not sunder that bond?”  
  
Caranthir shook his head. “No . . . you see, a spouse and a lover are one and the same to my people. You cannot have one without resulting in the other, for the act that merges bodies also fuses together souls. Your soul binds itself to a marriage mate once, and only once. Even if the body may die, the _soul_ never dies, and that bond would still remain between spirits, no matter their sundering . . . If my wife would ever leave this world before me, I would wait to join her again – either for finding her with my own death, or by waiting for her to walk alive from Námo's keeping with her rebirth. Or, so it is for the Elves, for we are tied to the spirit of Arda in a way the sons of Men are not.”  
  
Haleth looked down at his words. Her eyes were dark in the night, and for a moment they peered into a thought far beyond him. She looked sad, he realized after a moment; and his fëa blinked with awareness against his skin for the thought. His spirit urged him to reach out and touch her hand, her shoulder; to fix whatever ailed her. It _hurt_ to sit so close to her, while still being so far away in any way that truly mattered. He made a fist of his hands so as to force them into obedience, trying to keep the light of his spirit beneath his skin where it belonged. When speaking, he had not once spoke in generalities. He knew that he spoke of himself, and the slight, _stupid_ stirring of hope he had within him, as if vowing . . .  
  
Finally, Haleth looked up, some decision shining from her eyes. She seemed harder to his gaze, more resolute, and he had a queer moment of missing her, even when she sat close enough to touch.  
  
“Your ways sound beautiful,” she finally said a moment later. “While we do not have fey bonds such as you, there are many who feel the same way amongst Men. Lovers are _supposed_ to only be found within the parameters of marriage, but there are those who do not hold fast to that rule – both before and after their vows are said. You may even dishonor your mate by finding a lover outside of marriage, in the sad way of some affairs. And yet, there are some who, upon the death of a spouse, will never marry again out of love for their lost one. We are not so very different in that regard.” Again, she looked thoughtful. She absently fiddled with a tie on her dress. “And yet, we know not what awaits us beyond death. We only know that the One calls it a _Gift_ , and yet, we are left to guess as to its shape. As such, we live as well as we can in the time we have, and if a second love helps another with that living . . . well, I am not one who can judge that. Yet . . . while knowing another down to the soul is something I cannot quite understand, I can imagine one such bond being enough to last a lifetime . . . I see what it is that you say.”  
  
Caranthir forced a smile to his face, but the expression was pained. “I do not mean to say that our ways are without flaws, mind you – as you have seen with Finwë's tale. There are less conventional bonds that our Laws do not cover with traditional marriage – but they are no less whole for their going unspoken amongst our people. Unfortunately, there can be unequal matches formed between partners whose souls do not truly match. There are couples of centuries who later live apart for that mistake, for their bond can never truly be destroyed, no matter the lack of emotional fulfillment that comes with the match. Then, there are bonds forged in the heat of passion, or bonds where the soul of one partner alters while the other stays resolute . . . my own parents were estranged long before we swore our Oath, and yet . . . even then, my father grieved Nerdanel's name when he thought that none of us could see . . . I have to imagine that she felt much the same, even with the shame we have since brought to her name.”  
  
He swallowed, speaking of something he long left in silence – even within his most private of thoughts. Now his words were as a wound open and bleeding before him.  
  
In the clearing beyond, the piper's reel skipped and turned. The flutes sang out a merry trill, and he had to blink against the discordant backdrop the music provided for their speaking. After a moment, seeing the effect his memories had on him, Haleth reached over and hesitantly touched the back of his hand. Where she could not feel his spirit, she still knew him well enough to tell of the weight of his memories from his countenance alone. Her skin was even darker against the pale cast of his own skin in the starlight. Her hands were small, he could not help but think, even when the calluses thickening her fingertips only spoke of strength. If he took her hand in his own, his grasp would swallow hers.  
  
Just as gently, he brought his opposite hand to rest over the back of hers. She held her breath at the contact, but she did not move away from him. Her skin was soft and cool, and a tremor went through his body for touching her, actually _touching_ her, and -  
  
Caranthir inhaled, and let his breath out slow. His lungs _ached_ in his chest, and yet, the hurt was one he welcomed. Beyond them, the music slowed and spun, taking on a gentle rhythm made for couples. He imagined the new bride and groom walking hand in hand - both imagining the hands of others, perhaps, and something inside of his tightened. His fëa itched against his skin like something living, and while he would not let himself give into that call, he could -  
  
“Would you like to dance?” the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think to draw them back in.  
  
Haleth blinked in surprise. It was a look he enjoyed seeing on her, he admitted to himself - almost as anticipated as it was for when he could stir her into frustration and fond annoyance. “We should not,” she answered, glancing back to the clearing and her own folk within. “They saw me leave, and tongues will -”  
  
“ - already wag,” Caranthir finished for her. He let a true smile touch his mouth, sharp in shape. “You may as well earn a reason for their doing so.”  
  
Haleth bit her lip, clearly hesitating as she watched him rise. Yet, when he reached down for her, she placed her hand firmly within his own. She let him draw her to her feet. In moments like these, he thought with a bittersweet sort of wonder, he could find enough to sustain his heart on. He told himself that he could content himself on his, and only this. For sadly, he knew that he had to.  
  
Beyond them, the reel turned, and Haleth let him draw her close. For that moment, he let himself think on that and nothing else.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Translucent**  
  
There were times when he forgot the simple joy to be held for the untarnished curiosity and wonder of a child. Caranthir had not had an opportunity to guide a young mind since Celebrimbor was a youth during their last days in Aman, and now, children amongst the Noldor in Exile were few and far between. There were certainly none to be found at Lake Helevorn, and Haldan's eager chattering on the forest trail drew his attention with more warmth and fondness than he would ever admit to.  
  
Thankfully, the child seemed to be equally fascinated by him - and everything elvish that he represented. In the end, it had not taken much coaxing on the boy's part to convince his mother to let him accompany Haleth and him on their hunt, not with his face twisted into such a look of anticipation and his words eager and jumbled with joy from his mouth. Even so, Taemes wore a sharp, frank stare while Haldan chattered at her, her eyes never leaving his face as she demanded without words that he not wound her child's obvious awe, and watch over him where the land turned wild away from their tidy farmsteads and orderly fields. Caranthir would deny to any who asked that the human woman made him stand just that much straighter underneath her gaze – as if he was once again a child beneath Nerdanel's stare. Even so, Taemes thanked him when one of his gifts for Estolad was a training bow of Sindarin make for her son. Though he had to endure a few odd stares when commissioning the weapon, it was worth it for the simple happiness and appreciation Haldan bore for the gift. The mortal boy treated the weapon with a careful reverence, practicing in every moment he could steal since receiving the gift almost a month ago. Now he was ready to try out what he had learned with an application more real than targets painted upon a sandbag.  
  
Nearly a week later, they walked through the young forest that grew just to the west of Estolad – which, upon crossing the river Celon would grow to form the great forests of Doriath. Here there was game aplenty to be found amongst the young birch trees and thick fens carpeting the forest floor. The river flowed quick and shallow through the wood, tumbling over rocks and stone; flickering and dancing in the dappled sunlight from above. The sound of the water muted their step, turning them as shadows as they tracked their quarry in the woods. Earlier, Haldan had frightened off a young buck with his breaking a twig underfoot, and they had not found any large game since then. That did not matter too much – in some ways, a rabbit was more challenging to fell than a deer, and Haldan had already came close to finding his first kill on two separate instances. Even if he came away from their hunt with nothing to show for his efforts, he had gained in experience and learning, and Caranthir was pleased with his progress.  
  
They now knelt behind a shield of grey rocks, watching where a fat hare investigated the sprouts of clover and milkweed growing on the riverbank. Haldan had a flaw in his follow-through that most young archers had to train themselves to overcome, and he now watched to see how a proper draw should be completed. Caranthir had his bow strung, and was carefully watching the hare, waiting for his moment.  
  
Beside Haldan, Haleth watched him too, her own bow in hand with an arrow nocked and ready. Here in the peace of the forest, a line of tension seemed to disappear from the steel that coated her spine. In Estolad, her smiles were the slightest bit shielded; her words the slightest bit guarded with her constantly having to look side to side for the eyes that were ever watching her. Here in the wood, with no one to look and call out right or wrong, she smiled more easily. She exuded confidence and contentment, and he enjoyed the return of her sharp insights and wry humor. He kept on finding reasons to extent their trip away from the main settlements of Estolad, covetous as he was of the time he had where she was merely _herself_ , and not Haleth, Chieftess of the Haladin.  
  
Yet, for now, he glanced to the side to make sure that Haldan was paying attention. Sure enough, the boy was all wide and unblinking brown eyes, eager as he was for him to take his shot. Haleth too watched him – though, with a hint of challenge and friendly competition that was at odds with Haldan's simple admiration. Caranthir felt himself rise to her challenge as he had never even strove to win his father's good opinion in life. He exhaled, telling himself to watch the hare, and not her, elsewise . . .  
  
Exaggerating his motions for Haldan's benefit, he took his aim. Haldan nodded, as if encouraging him, and he allowed himself one last glance at Haleth. In the green forest light, her look was soft with a moment of pride and appreciation. The sunlight shining down through the leaves flickered over her face, catching in her eyes and painting golden streaks in her hair, and -  
  
Most embarrassingly, in a way he _never_ would have been able to live down if any of his brothers had seen, he missed the hare when the animal caught their scent and turned to run. He flushed red in reply to his error, and yet, even as he drew another arrow to fix his mistake, Haleth was already standing and firing her own weapon in a smooth, practiced motion. Her hit was clean, and Haldan gave a small sound of excitement in reply to her felling the animal.  
  
“You see?” Haleth turned to her nephew. “Mind your follow-through.” She turned and raised a brow at him, and he felt his blush deepen. “Are you sure that you do not need me to take over the child's teaching, Master-elf? That was an easy shot to make.”  
  
Caranthir did not think that she would welcome hearing what the sunlight did to her eyes, and so, he settled for raising a haughty brow to match her own. “Is not minding the children a woman's task?” he said when Haldan ran off to investigate their kill. “If you see the need to fulfill that duty, then by all means, I shall not stop you.”  
  
Haleth rolled her eyes as she knelt down to pick up her pack and the string of rabbits they had already caught for that night's supper. “Then, by all means, attend to a _man's_ role, and help me clean these. The sun sets quicker in the forest, and I wish to make use of the light.”  
  
The fondness in her glance helped chase the red from his face, and finally, he let himself smile at his own mistake. He next followed her to the river as Haldan aimed at imaginary targets in the wood, firing and retrieving his arrows as he went. They could hear his exclamations of triumph and dismay given whenever he hit, or missed, a point only he knew in his mind.  
  
Haleth watched her nephew for a moment, and then she took her hunting knife from her belt and set about cleaning their kill for that night's dinner. He took his own knife out, and went to help her. The river bubbled on happily before them, singing to the sun as she started to drop from her high cradle in the sky. The green light started to turn gold and orange as the sun turned, and the light danced on the white waters like a flame. Caranthir looked across the water, feeling the weight of watchful eyes in the older trees on the opposite bank of the Celon. For a moment he stared with hard eyes, letting his look be noticed, and then he turned back to his task.  
  
Though Haleth had not his eyesight or fey senses, she had a hunter's premonition, and she knew the feel of her home well enough to know when another shared the land with her. She narrowed her own gaze across the river.  
  
“We are being watched,” she announced simply. “The air beyond the river is heavy, we have come to notice. Whenever we have tried to cross the river, our boatmen have found themselves back where they began with no memory of the journey that returned them there.” She glanced to him, a question in her eyes.  
  
“It is the Girdle of Melian you feel,” Caranthir explained, “The spells across the river are a powerful enchantment, even by the reckoning of my people.”  
  
“Melian?” Haleth asked curiously at the name. “Who is she?”  
  
“Melian,” he answered, “Is the Maia Queen of Doriath, unmatched both in wisdom and might.”  
  
Haleth frowned as she processed what he said. “Doriath is an elven realm, though,” she put together his stories with what she already knew. “Then how is a Maia . . .”  
  
He gave a sharp look of amusement in reply to her words, rare as it was to find an audience who did not already know the more fey tale of Doriath's beginning. “Though divine and of the West, Melian loved to walk the star-lit ways of Middle-earth before the rise of the Sun and Moon. When she found the Eldar, heading West at the Valar's call, she was fascinated by the Firstborn. There she met Thingol – then called Elwë – in the forest of Nan Elmoth, which still stands just to the north of here. She was instantly besotted, no matter the differences between them, and she entrapped him in a spell that lasted centuries. They stood still while the stars wheeled and the trees grew around them, until she was at last commanded by the Valar to let him go. She did so with grief in her heart, and yet, even with the spell's end, she was still entranced with him - and he with her. So, she diminished her spirit to live as one lesser. Melian took on a form of flesh and stayed by Thingol's side as his wife and Queen. It is her power you feel, protecting the forests they rule together.”  
  
Haleth listened carefully to his tale, something flickering in her gaze as he spoke. Perhaps she thought of unequal bonds between those of different fates – the same as he did. And yet, that was only he and his hope thinking so, as foolishly as he still let himself yearn.  
  
“And none may cross this boundary but for elf-kind?” Haleth asked, speaking of the part of the tale that deigned to her people.  
  
“And only those approved by Thingol, at that,” Caranthir answered. “When your people awakened, Thingol foresaw a son of Men doing him a great harm one day. As a result, he allows none of the Atani to pass through what is his.”  
  
Haleth snorted. “The superstitions of the Eldar,” she shook her head as she cut through a particularly tough area of skin on the hare.  
  
“The _foresight_ of the Eldar, I believe you meant to say,” he corrected in amusement - even when he silently agreed with her. “And yet, no matter his precaution, prophesy will find a way to come true, as it often does.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, our moving to change our fates only goes to ensure them all the more so.”  
  
She set her mouth thoughtfully, still looking across the river. “And you? Are you welcome beneath the Maia-queen's spell?”  
  
Ah.  
  
“Well,” Caranthir started awkwardly, unsure of how to phrase the truth. “You see . . . of old, Thingol was the elder brother of Olwë. Olwë continued to lead a portion of the Sindar across the sea when his brother was taken by Melian, and he settled his Teleri in Alqualondë, where he reigned as their King. Then, we . . .”  
  
“Oh,” Haleth said in understanding. She darted a glance to him – neither condemning or sympathetic, for which he was grateful. “Thingol is the king who forbade the speaking of your tongue, then?”  
  
“Yes,” Caranthir inclined his head. “Great is Thingol's pride, and while understandable in some ways, in others . . . he does this world a wound by staying safe in his forests and refusing to set his might against the threat of Morgoth in the north. It is easy to do nothing with the spells of a Maia protecting you, but the rest of Middle-earth does not have that luxury.”  
  
Beyond them, the eyes watching from the trees seemed to narrow, as if hearing their words. Caranthir forced himself to stillness, understanding how the hare from earlier must have felt before the arrow struck. For his sins with the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, his own life would be forfeit with crossing the river. Yet, he reminded himself, Thingol's rule did not extend to Estolad beyond. He forced himself not to flinch and turn away, but to calmly complete his task as if uncaring of the unkind eyes across the river. Haleth seemed to pick up on what he saw in the trees beyond – Thingol's March-wardens with bows at the ready, and when Haldan splashed into the river to fetch one of his stray arrows she called, “Leave it!” to the child. “Do not go into the water for anything, no matter what.”  
  
Haldan quickly darted back to the rocky bank with her saying so, understanding the seriousness in her voice and trusting her to know best. “I will aim the other way,” he assured his aunt, and Haleth nodded, pleased.  
  
She did not say anything more about the spells of Doriath or the odd romance binding together the celestial spirit of a Maia with the earthy soul of an Elf, no matter how kingly. Instead, she went about completing her task, even humming underneath her breath as if uncaring of their observers. Even so, she darted her gaze across the river every few minutes, her eyes dark as she searched the trees beyond. Caranthir wondered if she realized how she grasped the knife in her hand; how she turned her body as if to shield him, even when he needed her protection not. It was endearing, the protection this mortal girl thought she could provide against Thingol's own, and yet, he could find no humor within him for her doing so. Instead, something soft and warm seemed to fill him in reply to her actions, and he did not immediately move to turn it away.  
  
When moving for the next rabbit, he paused and looked at her in the dimming light. The sun had sank while they spoke, and now its light was red and dancing as it touched the river with gold and turned the highlights in her hair aflame. He meant to look away, but he found that he could do nothing but stare. A distant part of him thought that he could understand why Thingol had been unable to break away from Melian's spell – unwilling as he was to part from such a vision for anything. Captive he was, but more than willing was he to be so.  
  
Distantly, Caranthir even thought of his own parents. His father had drawn a few curious eyes in Aman for his choice of bride - for Fëanor was even acknowledged by the Valar as being the most beautiful of their kind, and while none of the Elves of Aman were unappealing to look on, Nerdanel had been plain when compared to many of the ethereal faces around her. Rather than the willowly, slim builds of many of Finwë's noblewomen, Nerdanel was tall – nearly staring eye to eye with his father, who towered over all but Finwë himself. Her bones were thick and her form was strong and voluptuously curved – a body gifted to help her withstand the labors of her art and the later trials of bearing and raising her seven children. Her features were wide, her green eyes slightly too large and her mouth too wide to fit her face – _more for her to smile with_ , Fëanor ever brushed her concerns away when she critiqued herself, and always would that same smile grow for him saying so. Her hair had been her crowning glory, as red and wild as fire - a rare colour found only amongst her father's house in Aman. Even so, she normally kept her hair bound simply and unadorned so as to keep it out of her way while she went about her sculpting. She wore practical aprons over leather tunics and soft leggings in the style of a man and cared not for anyone who commented on her doing so - and his father had loved her all the more so for it. Back when he struggled through his feelings for Eldalótë, Caranthir had asked his father what drew him to Nerdanel. In a moment that would later turn rare for his sire, Fëanor's look had softened as he simply answered that Nerdanel was like a flame to his eyes. His perception of her beauty constantly flickered, and he never saw the same point to marvel over twice. He always found something new to enchant him - no matter the centuries they spent together. He could not capture her with his arts, for her likeness would never be done justice in hard stone and lines of ink upon a paper. Yet, he enjoyed the challenge.  
  
Once, Caranthir thought himself to understand his father's words. Truly he did. And yet, now . . .  
  
When he first met Haleth, he had thought her little more than common in appearance, especially when viewed through he eyes of the Eldar. Even those amongst Mankind would hesitate to call her a beauty, and she little helped herself with her practical braids and her mannish clothes. Nothing about her warranted looking twice, first he had thought, and yet . . . now, the more he came to know her, the more he found it hard to look away. The features that once seemed unflattering drew his every look, and her likeness waited behind his closed eyes whenever he was away from her. Her face was defined by full cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. Her eyes were heavily lidded underneath her arched brow, but the smoky blue colour of her gaze drew him more than the shape of her eyes – darkening as they would near to black, depending on her mood and the light. The bridge of her nose was narrow, the point rounded, and yet, its shape fit her. More than any of her features, he found himself staring at the freckles that dusted her tan skin – markings that normally left Men with adulthood, he had since come to learn, but had lingered with her. The small marks were a curiosity - endearing, he could not help but think, foreign as they were to Elvish skin. Her mouth was wide and full - too full to fit her face, perhaps, but he found himself echoing Fëanor with his thoughts - _more to smile with_ – when she did smile, that was. He was starting to know as much pride when he inspired her smiles as he did when stroking her ire – a now familiar and much anticipated pastime as it was.  
  
_Beautiful_ , he could not help but think. Where each feature could be called unremarkable on their own, together they were _her_ , and he found that he could not look away as the red light danced over her skin as if to point out new points of interest for his eyes to uncover and savor.  
  
She looked over at Haldan again, but caught his stare as she turned back to her work. Haleth raised a brow, and he saw a flicker of self-consciousness touch her gaze. She bit her lip, a rare outward sign of her discomfort, before asking, “Is something amiss?” in a voice that was more hesitation than inquiry.  
  
Caranthir wanted to tell her of the revelation in his thoughts, but his tongue was, as ever, a leaden weight in his mouth. He continued to stare, and instead of one of the more poetic, inspired things that he could think to say, all he could awkwardly stammer out was: “You are beautiful.”  
  
While most of his experiences with women could be called _bungling_ in the truest sense of the word, he knew enough to know that such compliments were supposed to draw a blush and perhaps a word of flattered acknowledgment in reply. Haleth, however, was not most woman. And yet, even he did not expect the shadow that fell over her eyes at his words. She looked hurt, he could not help but think, bewildered as he was by the emotion he saw bloom on her face. Her gaze then hardened into a more familiar look of anger, and that was all the warning he had before lifted her hand and struck him sharply across the cheek.  
  
While the blow itself did not particularly sting, her expression afterward did. She looked as a wounded animal trying to hide its weakness, and that was the only glance he was allowed as she turned from him and stood. She gathered the skinned meat and her hunting knife and then walked to a small clearing in the trees to set up their camp for the night. She pointedly kept her back to him – warning him not to come after her. Caranthir stared, bewildered as to how he had given offense and frustrated by the reaction he had received. Only the flash of hurt he remembered in her gaze helped curb his temper – bruised as his ego now was.  
  
He glared across the river, where he was sure that Thingol's March-warden's were laughing at him. After a long moment, he sighed and gathered his own things to aid her in preparing for the night. The dinner to follow was a quiet, terse affair - Haldan picked up on the strain between them and wisely said nothing to break the silence. Later, when dinner was done and Haldan fell into a deep, contented sleep from the exercise of the day, Haleth finished clearing their things away and stared into the dwindling fire with a contemplative stare. She did not slip into her bedroll right away, which Caranthir took to mean that she wished to speak with him.  
  
At long last, he opened his mouth to apologize, when Haleth spoke before he could, saying, “I am sorry that I struck you. It was unfair of me to treat you so.”  
  
Once more he went to speak, but she continued. Her voice was rushed, as if she was hurrying to say something unpleasant quickly, so that she would not have to hold the words in her mouth longer than was necessary. “Yet, it was unkind of you to tease me so. Not about that,” she stopped and gathered her words. “You are a prince of the Eldar, and you . . . you _are_ beautiful,” she flushed as she waved a vague hand to encompass all of him. Yet, any pleasure he may have known for her approving of his appearance was quelled by her inability to meet his gaze – something which she had never shied away from, not even at the first. “You are _beautiful_ , and I . . . I know what I am . . . I know what I am, and I have accepted that. I do not need you to remind me in such a way.”  
  
She thought him to be jesting, he then understood with a pang. She did not think it possible for his words to be true, and so, she automatically assumed a cruelty on his part. He felt a moment of anger, wondering whose prior words had set such a bruise, before pushing that thought away, not wanting her to see his darker emotions when she at last met his eyes.  
  
Softly, more gently than he thought himself capable of being, he reached over to tilt her chin, turning her to look at him. Even the slightest of touches brought a thrill to his spirit. Her skin was cool from the night air, even with the summer settling upon them, and he let his thumb move to the right in the barest of caresses. He met her eyes, and found them red, as if she were blinking back tears. The wound he himself felt in reply to her hurt settled in deeper.  
  
“Then, you cannot see what I see,” he said. His words were soft, pitched lower than he intended, given on hardly more than a whisper. He watched as her eyes flickered – bewildered and lost as she processed his words. But there was a question therein as she searched his gaze for any sign of falsehood. He knew that she would find none, and watched her blush as understanding and belief asserted themselves in her mind. The smallest of smiles touched her mouth - a more expected reaction to a compliment, he let himself think with a ghosting of humor - before she leaned into the touch of his hand.  
  
It was the smallest of motions, and yet, hope bloomed warm and soaring within him. He tried to warn himself that this was dangerous – both for her heart and his. Yet, he could not stop himself from moving his hand to touch the strong shape of her jaw and the full curve of her cheek. He let his thumb rest on one of the more prominent of her freckles, and felt a jolt pass through him for the caress. His fëa was very close to the surface of his skin in that moment, all but pulsing within the shell of his body. Her cool skin flushed warm underneath his touch, _so very warm_ , and for a moment he . . .  
  
“Your hands are warm,” she whispered, uncannily echoing his thoughts. Her voice was low, forming a deep cadence that he had yet to hear from her. His fëa spiked in awareness for it. “Are they always like this?”  
  
“I have never noticed,” his voice was warm to match her own. Her eyes flickered at the sound, and she took in a deep breath before leaning back from him. There was a flash of steel in her eyes – determination, he could not help but think, and upon seeing so, he felt his own face flush for the intimacy he had placed upon her.  
  
He let out a deep breath, and let the moment go.  
  
“It will be a long day tomorrow. We should get some rest,” Haleth looked over at Haldan, still deeply sleeping, and her look softened once more.  
  
“I had forgotten the unending energy of youth,” Caranthir commented wryly, following her eyes with his own gaze.  
  
The embers were few and fading in the fire before them, and upon seeing so, she moved to her bedroll, ready for the night. He let her go in silence, feeling her eyes on him even as he did so. She continued to look for him for a long time after, and he let her stare.  
  
Finally, she smiled once, sadly, before she turned over, giving in to the pull of the night. This close to her, Caranthir knew that he would not find sleep, and instead stayed awake and contemplative until the morning came.  
  
  
  
.   
.  
  
**Transparent**  
  
The summer stretched on, and the last weeks before the harvest were as hot and humid as the winter had been cold and fierce.  
  
While good for the fields, the damp heat of the day only resulted in thin tempers when Haleth's council met in the late afternoon. For both her relative youth and her inexperience with leading, Haleth kept a circle of advisers - both peers her own age and the wise older men of her people. Caranthir was allowed to sit in on those meetings so long as he kept silent unless directly asked a question by those gathered. He did not feel slighted by the arrangement; rather, he understood it, and he was eager to provide what aid he could in any form. As his time amongst the Haladin stretched, his opinion was sought more and more - only, never in a way that would directly result in influencing the leading of their people, he noticed with some bemusement. As always, the unbending desire of the Haladin to never yield to any other was fierce indeed.  
  
On that day, the somewhat strained tempers ever found with such an interchange of opinions were at a boiling point for both the heat of the day and the tempestuous nature of the feud at hand. There were those of Marach's ilk who were trying to claim a good deal of the Haladin's northernmost fields as land of their own. Yet, the deeds they presented were those set only in the most vaguest of senses, with spoken claims granting them rights to the land more often than not. Most suspiciously, they also waited to claim the fields until the end of the summer, when the harvest was close at hand – not moving to voice their ownership until it was apparent how well the corn and wheat grew where the Haladin had struggled to work the land to fruitfulness.  
  
Only three summers prior, Malach Marach's son had led a great portion of the Third House to dwell in the north, on Fingolfin's lands, as both he and his daughter were close in friendship and counted amongst the Wise by the Elves. The man who lead the Marachites remaining in Estolad was a hard, ambitious man who sought to live up to the legend of his predecessor's name - and, at times, Mundor would test the boundaries with his new neighbors just for the sake of seeing how far they would go before snapping. Haleth had stood tall with the other chieftain thus far, but there were those on her council who whispered that if Haleth had been a man, then Mundor's people would not have dared to claim the fields in the first place. Some of the Marachites had attempted to harvest 'their' fields by force, and that had led to a minor crossing of blows between the opposing farmers before men with sense had broken the feud. It was this dispute they attempted to reason on that day.  
  
It was an argument that went in circles. The Marachites were a fierce, warring people, and the Haladin were still recovering from the last time they crossed swords with another – and Haleth would not fight her fellow Men, not after they had crossed the mountains just to avoid such dark infighting amongst their people. Even still, many on her council trusted her less and less to simply _speak_ with Mundor, as that had proved ineffective before. As time dragged on, words turned crosser, and tempers turned hot as egos were bruised and words were spoken unthinkingly in anger. Caranthir sat in silence, his jaw clenching and his offended sense of justice smarting as first one insult was heaped on her shoulders and shrugged aside, and another passive aggressive remark given, and another, until -  
  
He knew that it was not his place to speak in her defense, and yet, speak he still did – speak hotly, as if scolding a group of unruly elflings – and he knew his error in saying so as soon as the words fled his mouth. The council turned unusually quiet as a dozen and a half sly eyes turned to Haleth to see how she would allow her guest to step into her affairs and fight her battles for her. He knew he had erred, but he did not judge his words to be in the wrong. He kept his expression hard and fierce, even as Haleth called the meeting to an end until tempers could cool. She then coldly stalked from the longhouse without looking behind - sure that he would follow.  
  
His own temper was at a boiling point, both for the eyes who followed them, and the turn of her anger _to him_. His spirit was flashing hotly, rising to his skin in a wave of orange and red light. It flickered from his hröa in wispy waves, no matter how he tried to keep it inside. Worse than all was the disrespect they paid her; the _insolence_. He had watched her while dwelling in Estolad, and he could honestly say that she was a good leader - who cared for her people and did her best to see them prosper in every way. He could think of no man in her circle of advisers who could do any better, and to hear scorn and slurs for her Eru-given _gender_ was something he could not understand. He would dare these men to tell _Artanis_ that she was any less a force for her femininity. _Idril_ any less, _Aredhel_ any less - even _Melian_ or _Varda_ herself. No, in some ways, they were only more for it.  
  
A horrible, intoxicating voice, deep inside of him (the same one that had moved him to swear his Oath, that muttered that Fëanor would look and know pride _if only_ -) whispered that if she was _his_ , bonded at the spirit, then such an insult would have been his to put to right in every way. Even now, his soul shimmered in outrage, for any slight to her was a slight to _him,_ and it was nature's command that he fix and aid whatever ailed her. The spirit did not care about the petty politics of men; it only saw that she struggled - unfairly so - and demanded that he do something to heal the wound, even as it was inflicted.  
  
And . . . the truth of the matter was that he had stayed too long. He should have returned to Lake Helevorn weeks – months – ago. Yet, he had thought himself strong enough to content himself with her comradeship – her friendship, even. Instead, rather than settling his attraction into a more practical – a more _realistic_ \- shape, the months spent with her only intensified that which he had long fought to ignore. His soul was strained and aching inside of his flesh, caring not of the differences between them, caring not of the sundering between their very kinds, and it _hurt_ to stand so close to her without breathing a word of what was bubbling up, deep inside of him. He should have departed and worked on his own treacherous heart from afar, but he was ever a glutton for self-inflicted pain, and he had instead lingered . . . lingered for much too long.  
  
Now his fëa was snapping and consuming that which was rational and centuries-wise about him. He knew that he should not have followed her straight away. He should have found peace and privacy first, and worked his spirit down from the fey shape it was taking, but he did not. Instead, he followed hotly on her heels to answer the angry words he could already see forming in her eyes.  
  
They did not make it far. Haleth did not turn for her dwelling, or even his guest's accommodations. Instead, she darted inside of an out-building that served as a store-house for parts to repair farming equipment, and he closed the creaking wood door behind them with as much of a thud as he could manage.  
  
Haleth rounded on him, sparing no time to ease into her words as she said, “You are here in friendship, and in no manner do you stand by my side as a lord! I thought that I had made that clear, time and time again.” Her words were low and harsh – mindful of those who were no doubt lingering just beyond, hoping to overhear.  
  
“Forgive me,” his words were hissed to match, “but he was being impudent, and I could not -”  
  
“ - you did not trust me to handle my battles myself?” Haleth interrupted incredulously, her words breaking from their low tone with her feeling.  
  
“That is not what I said, and you _know_ that is not how I think of you,” Caranthir returned, fighting the urge he had to run his hand through his hair in frustration. “Yet, for all of your knowing, you still have a child's wisdoms when compared -”  
  
“ - just because I do not have _centuries_ to my name, does not mean that I cannot handle my own people in my own way,” Haleth all but spat the words, her eyes flashing a fire to match that which he could feel roll underneath his skin, undulating in waves like the ocean. He fought the urge he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath; to pinch the bridge of his nose and force himself to _calm_.  
  
“That is not what I meant,” there was more frustration in his voice than anger. He tried to surreptitiously take a deep breath, but it did not work. His lungs were too tight in his chest, his heart racing, and -  
  
“Really?” her tone was mocking. “Yet, is that not what you said, or did this _child_ hear you wrong?”  
  
\- his fëa all but shrieked against the shell of his body, overwhelming and molten in response to her words. _She d_ _oes_ _not understand._ _She is mortal, and an elven woman would have long backed away,_ he tried to tell himself. Yet, he did not have the words within him to explain the thin shreds of his control. Not now. He stalked closer to her, moving more like the spirit of nature he truly was, rather than the veneer of humanity he normally forced himself to wear - but it did little to cow her. She put her chin up to his greater height and power of form, and her eyes flashed as if daring him closer.  
  
“You do not scare me,” she proclaimed boldly, her voice still hot. “You have not _ever_ intimidated -”  
  
He shoved her back those final two steps, pushing her until her back hit the wall with a dull thud. His hands came to rest flat against the wooden panels on each side of her head – superficially trapping her, for she had only to move one way or the other to be free of him. He closed his eyes then, trying to snap out of the fey haze that had taken him. “Please,” when he spoke, his voice was low and rumbling from his chest – plaintive in his plea. “I need you to be _silent_ for a moment.”  
  
Finally, she seemed to notice the light in his eyes and the heat rising from his skin. Her anger cooled just that quickly, and he watched where concern instead filled her gaze. Hesitantly, as if telling herself she should not even as she did so, she reached up to just touch his cheek in a ghostly caress. Her fingers were callused and cool, and yet, they trailed such a spark in their wake. She tilted her head in question, trying to understand what ailed him.  
  
“Carnistir?” she asked in a soft voice. “Carnistir, what is it?”  
  
He flinched at hearing her give his name – his _true_ name. He exhaled deeply, trying not to think on how close she was, how _near_ she was. Her eyes were filling with a heat of their own, and he watched where her gaze poured over him as if drinking him in. She looked as if she wished to take her hand away, but instead, she moved to touch the braid that bound the hair from his temples. She fingered the silky plait as if she were a thief touching stolen treasure, before trailing her fingers back even further to trace the upper ridge of his ear until she found its fey point with her curious fingertips. The caress, as slight as it was, caused him to shudder, lightning dancing from the pads of her fingers to join the already turbulent play of heat beneath his skin. He did not want her to take her hand away, even as that same traitorous voice inside of him wondered how her _mouth_ would feel at that same point, and for a moment he -  
  
Caranthir forced himself to exhale, but it was of little use. He bowed his head before her, the differences in their heights great, but not so great that he could not help but imagine how she would fit against him. He only touched his brow to her own, inhaling the warmth of her skin and the scent of her hair, and when her breath hitched, he _knew_ he was not the only one with such thoughts. He could not be. _Souls find their matches in pairs_ , he remembered Maglor saying, and for a moment he let himself hope, that for everything standing between them . . .  
  
He tilted her chin up, and found the smoky blue of her eyes nearly black. The sparse light leaking in through the cracks in the wood only let him see her in shadowy shapes, but he knew her face as well as his own now. There was only familiarity as he traced his hand over the curve of her cheek to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear and cradle the side of her face in his hand. He exhaled, and shared her breath. Still, she did not move away. Instead, she pressed her face into his touch. He felt her shudder, and her eyes were dark, so _very_ dark when they fixed on his own with a question.  
  
“Carnistir?” she asked one more time, and the tremble in her voice made her seem years younger than she truly was. His next breath shook, and his fëa leapt wildly within him, pushing, _urging_ . . .  
  
“You, woman, are _maddening_ ,” was all he could manage to say before he dipped his head and kissed her.  
  
If he was honest with himself, which he normally strove to be, he had imagined kissing her many times over the summer – so many times he had stopped counting for the futility of it. Each of those imaginings had been something fierce and fighting in his mind's eye - a war of hands and mouths, for this was _Haleth_ , after all. Instead, the kiss was soft . . . hesitant, almost. She seemed surprised, her eyes open and wide as she stared at him. She remained painfully still as he simply rested his mouth against her own; unmoving until she seemed to come to a decision in her mind. He felt both of her hands thread around his shoulders and then sink into his hair as she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes in order to better fit herself to him. Then she closed her eyes and returned his kiss slowly and hesitantly. Something inside of him ached all the more so for the tenderness of the moment.  
  
Of course, it did not stay that way - for he had wanted for too long, and his soul was pushing and possessive as it moved him to take anything, _everything_ , she would offer. He pressed her back against the wall, and she molded herself to him as best she could, biting at his lower lip and giving small, breathless moans into his mouth that he could not before imagine when he had tried. His hands were not sure where to rest, for there was so much that was new to discover - from the shape of her spine to the deep curve of her waist and the tempting play of muscle and softness ( _so much softness_ \- he had always imagined her hard and unyielding) underneath her tunic. Her own hands were curious to match, touching everywhere she could as she somehow found a way to be more clever than he and snake her hands underneath his tunic and press her palms flat against the hard muscles of his chest. His heart thundered underneath her hand, and she smiled into his kiss upon feeling so. She smiled before seemingly coming to her senses for what they were doing - wrenching herself away from him with an almost pained sound.  
  
For a moment, he did not understand what she was doing – and yet, she had nowhere to go between the wall and him. She pushed him back, and he parted from her clumsily, his eyes still caught in a haze and his spirit clamoring to gather her to him once more. _She would not fight him, she would not turn him away_ , the fey part of his blood whispered, and -  
  
Yet, the confused look in her eyes gave him pause, even as his blood heated anew as she touched her mouth with something soft in her gaze that he could not quite define . . . but, it was something he could become used to very quickly indeed.  
  
He took a step towards her again, but she held a hand up to him. “Wait,” she tried to shape her voice as a command. It only came out breathless, he noted with some satisfaction. “I . . . _you_ . . ." she gathered her thoughts. She forced her words to come out clear and strong. "Your kind do not take lovers lightly, you said.” Something in her voice tightened. It turned hard. “If this is something trivial to you, something -”  
  
“ _Everything_ , you mean?” he returned, his voice turned as if shaping a vow. “It is as you said, we do not take partners frivolously.”  
  
Her brow furrowed. She would not let herself understand him. “Yet . . . you were appalled to hear that my brother's widow would marry anew where she did not love. _Love_ , you were so bewildered to think on anything else, and now . . .” Haleth did not know how to finish her words. She faltered, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to give her thoughts a voice.  
  
She let him take one step to her. One step, and then two. “My spirit knows its match,” he answered her in the only way he knew how. “My spirit knows – has known – and . . . it _hurts_ to ignore that call. It is as a physical pain, and I could bear it no more.”  
  
“Yet,” she took a step back from him, sliding to the right on the wall. “I am _mortal_. I am but a child in comparison to your great years, and I will turn old and grey before the blinking of an eye to you.” Her voice was low and plaintive as she said so - as if the matter of her mortality wasn't a thought that brought him an all but crippling pain whenever he but considered it.  
  
“I have lived more in these months than I have in centuries,” he answered honestly, knowing the truth of his words even as he spoke them. “And,” his voice turned low. He tried not to flinch as he spoke. “Someday, that shall be my burden to bear, and not yours.”  
  
She shook her head. Her hands trembled, and she turned them into fists. “How can you not think that to be my burden?” she asked as if wounded. “To know that I _let_ you do this, that I _chained_ you to my side by not being strong enough to push you away . . . You say so now, but you will not feel the same when time changes me . . . and even if you do, I will not let myself curse you to such an eternity spent alone after my death. I -”  
  
“ - curse?” he interrupted her. He repeated the word as if it amused him, for truly it did. “I have known dark fates inflicted both by my own sins and foretold by the Valar themselves. If _this_ is to be a curse, then sweet is my doom indeed!”  
  
She shook her head, her eyes narrowing at him. Even so, he could see where she faltered, where she _wanted_. His tongue was thick in his mouth, it seemed, helpless to aid him. And yet, if he could but let her _see_ . . .  
  
He was ever clumsy in the mental arts, preferring action and words spoken to the more fey ways of his people. And yet . . . his fëa was seemingly rising in his throat then. The world around him was loud and pulsing in his veins. He could feel it all; he could sense the thick clouds summoned by the humidity in the air, he could taste the storms on the back of his tongue as they grew overhead. He could feel the ground as it readied itself to yield its fruits; the trees beyond as they set their strong roots deep for the cold season to come. He _was_ the Song in that moment, and if ever he would show her what he felt, it would be now.  
  
Carefully, he reached out with his senses, trying to find the bright mark of her spirit on that plane. She was a flickering white light to his senses – so much brighter for how quickly she would burn out, and he reached out to open his mind to that light. He concentrated, and . . .  
  
Well, he thought, at least his question of whether or not they were even compatible was answered then. He had not been sure if he would even be able to bond to her as he would an elven woman. And yet, he doubted that his spirit would have drawn him to her if that would have been the case. The One should have known of the possibility of such a match, he thought next. He _had_ to know, Caranthir could not help but think, for he would not think it a flaw, a _fluke_ to feel this way. How could he, when his very soul seemed to pulse and ache with the _rightness_ of it?  
  
He saw her eyes widen, and then dart to him in question. This time, when he stepped forward to cup her face in his hands, she let him, grasping on to him as if he was an anchor. “ _This_ ,” she stammered out dumbly. “This is . . .”  
  
“A shadow of what a true bond would be,” he answered her. “And the reason why we find it impossible to bind ourselves twice over. For how could I even _look_ at another after sharing this with the one whom my spirit chooses?”  
  
She looked as if she wished to close her eyes, but she did not, instead opting to stare at him in unveiled wonder. As best he could, he tried to show her what he felt – his awe and humbled respect for both her and her people, and his admiration of her zeal and vigor to fight any she waged to the full. He felt complete when he was with her, he at last let her see. He felt _complete_ , and he could not, he _would_ not let himself imagine a future where he did not take what he could from the few years they would have together. In that, he would know a regret and longing more fierce than the missing he would know after her passing. For, at least, that was to be a natural sundering; something that only the One knew of in whole, and something that perhaps, _someday_ . . .  
  
But he did not let himself think of that now, not when she was looking at him in such a way. He saw questions and wonder and hopelessness all in her eyes, and for a moment, he let himself hope that her wanting would outweigh her doubts – much as it had with him.  
  
“I can give you nothing in return,” she told him honestly, waiting until he carefully untangled his spirit from hers in order to speak. “I can offer you not of a place by my side or a home with you. Neither can I leave my people for yours, and I will not take your name as my own . . . I . . . any man would balk before such a union, and I would not blame you for doing the same.”  
  
He shook his head. “I understand futility in a way that few others can," he said with a grim humor. "That understanding has long taught me to take what little I can and know the blessings to be found in that. That is not what I want . . . and yet, what I _truly_ want is not possible, and I have long accepted that. While this would not be a marriage in the eyes of your people, it would be to mine. Any looking at my eyes would see a shadow of you, and know of my bond. Though,” he admitted ruefully, “it is considered the height of rudeness to not properly seek the consent of one's family and formalize such vows publicly. Yet, this is not a traditional situation, and if you knew my brothers, you'd understand why I would not particularly want to take the formal path.”  
  
Haleth gave the smallest of smiles, no doubt thinking of the dozens of anecdotes he had shared with her over the last year. He once more bowed his head to rest his brow against her own. In return, she rested her hands against his chest, even as a battle waged in her eyes. Though his spirit was not the force it was earlier, it still sparked against his skin, and he had to forcibly keep his more fey sensibilities down. He knew what he wanted, but he had had months to think on such a thing. Now . . .  
  
“If I stay here like this with you, I will do something I will later regret,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. Her eyes darkened to match, and she bit her lip as she darted her gaze to his mouth. Perhaps, he let himself hope, it would not take her too long to come to a decision. Besides, he forced the heat in his blood to fade, as much as he appreciated the ambiance of the plow blades and harrow beams behind them, this was not where he had envisioned himself asking for his place in her life. He would prefer somewhere without sickles and scythes staring over his shoulder, he acknowledged with a forced humor.  
  
“Please, take as long as you need to think this through,” he took a step back from her, though that one step was one of the hardest tasks he had yet to complete in his long life. “There will be no turning back from this, not for me, and I . . . I do not think that I would be able to bear regret on your part. I ask you to consider what I have said carefully, and I . . . I will wait for you.”  
  
Haleth nodded, her eyes already lost to thought as he turned from her. And yet, before he passed through the door, he turned back one last time to see her touching her hand to her mouth. There was wonder and awe in her eyes, along with something softer, something _more_ . . . In reply, he let himself know hope, and felt as it soared.  
  



	54. "what we choose for fear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod & Lúthien || Prompt: _Bearing_ , Free-write

**Bearing**  
  
The halls of Menegroth were steeped in joy and revalrie as the whole of Doriath gathered together to celebrate a marriage centuries in the making. The couple yoked together that day was much beloved by the people, and all who gathered rejoiced to see their own finally happy and bound together as one.  
  
Which, was to say that the feasting hall was beautifully decorated in silver and white, glittering and splendid with a glory unique to Menegroth. Rich food was served in abundance, and the wine flowed freely – perhaps more freely than it should, truth be told. As a backdrop to all, Daeron had composed dozens of new selections just for this occasion – everything from lively reels meant for dancing, to a hauntingly soft melody that had accompanied the bride and groom trading their vows. Finrod had heard the finest of the Lindar sing for the Noldor King in his court, and he had even been blessed with hearing Maglor Fëanorian give his voice in song during more than one family occasion; and yet, none compared to Daeron and his gift for weaving the true Song into notes for strings and flute, for which the results were ever heartbreakingly beautiful. All in all, the people of Menegroth outdid themselves with making this a day his sister would never forget – for which Finrod was thankful.  
  
Nursing a goblet of a sweet white wine himself, Finrod stood out of the way of the dancing couples as he took in the sea of faces gathered to the attend the wedding feast. Although his joy for that day had been exclusive until then, he allowed himself a moment's pang when he thought about the faces who were missing from the crowd. Even amongst their kin who had crossed into Endórë, there were gaps, Finrod could not help but notice – and he did not even allow himself to consider the family they had left across the sea. His father never thought that he would not be able to give away his only daughter, and his mother never thought that a stranger would welcome her good-son into the house of Finarfin rather than herself. Even amongst their siblings there were gaping holes, with Aegnor and Angrod both not even ten years fallen. He himself had just barely escaped alive from Morgoth's wrath in the Dagor Bragolloch, and even then, he only did so for the aid of Barahir the mortal man, great as it was. Orodreth too had retreated to Nargothrond with his wife and child-daughter when Morgoth set his sights on Tol Sirion after the success of his initial campaign, and having his youngest brother and family near was but a small balm for that which they had lost.  
  
It had taken over a year for the lands to be cleared enough of Morgoth's filth for him to journey to Doriath to tell his sister of their losses in person. Greater than even he with the arts of the uncanny, Galadriel had felt the sundering of her kin in her soul. Even still, hearing him tell his firsthand account of the battle had brought tears to her eyes – tears that she had stubbornly refused to let fall. While she did not weep, she did not seem to be quite as tall when weighed down by her grief. The strength of her bearing had seemed the slightest bit forced; the light of her spirit the slightest bit dimmed, and he had hated to see her struck so low. Seeing her grieve was nearly as much a pain as the reason for their grief, and she had allowed him to hold her as they both shared their happier memories of their siblings - memories which he still had to force himself to cling to when his ruminations turned dark.  
  
Though Galadriel had known herself to love her Sindar prince for some time, she was only now binding herself in marriage to Celeborn Galadhonion. After their hurdle of healing from the news of the First Kinslaying – and the greater wound inflicted by Galadriel's silence on the matter - Finrod knew that Celeborn had been asking for his sister's hand in marriage all but daily, he knowing his own heart, and trusting that hers would recognize the same. For centuries she had delayed the inevitable - only accepting Celeborn's proposal the morning after her brothers were felled. They had then waited for a period of mourning out of respect for the dead, and as a result this day was now a bittersweet moment for the couple, filled with rejoicing and memory both.  
  
Now over a century ago, Orodreth only had to propose to Melethuil - a Sindarin maiden with gentle smiles, who perfectly matched his brother's even temperament - once. Melethuil was the sister of Nimethuil - the wife of Celeborn's brother Galathil, and there had been joy indeed in Doriath for their further binding the royal families together with their union. Orodreth and Meluthuil had lived beyond Doriath soon after their marriage, but every time they returned, Orodreth would dryly provide Celeborn with tips to ensnare his sister's heart – to which Celeborn always had a cutting retort or two ready to utter in reply.  
  
But now even Galathil and his wife were no more, as they had fallen to Orc blades when leaving the protection of Doriath to welcome Orodreth and Melethuil's daughter Finduilas into the world. They too were a gap where there should be none, and their daughter Nimloth was now a shy, quiet child for her loss. Celeborn and Galadriel had taken over the child's guardianship, and even with the couple striving to see to her healing, Nimloth's smiles were slow to come. Though younger, Finduilas now matched Nimloth much in body, and the girl had been overjoyed to find a playmate in Doriath when her parents arrived for Galadriel's wedding. The two were a smiling and happy pair, fast in friendship in the way that all children seemed to bear for each other.  
  
There were so many _missing_ , Finrod let himself reflect with a sigh. The day before, shortly after his arrival, Galadriel had admitted in a rare moment of melancholy that she never thought to be denying Eärwen the joy of seeing her wed – for she had not come to Middle-earth seeking love. Some far off, _missing_ part of her had been the force that kept Celeborn at arm's length from her – for though she denied it, rather would she have Celeborn approach her father rather than her brother, and rather would her mother had braided her hair and helped her sew her bridal gown, rather than Melian. Galadriel would never admit to such sentiment, even within the privacy of her own mind, but Finrod knew his sister better than she did herself – no matter her great wisdom and famed understanding. It only mattered that Celeborn knew her mind as well as he, and the silver lord was all patience and grace to match everything that was strength and pride about his sister - for which Finrod was more grateful than words could say.  
  
Galadriel had been nothing but glowing joy and serene smiles the whole of her wedding day, but the day before she had spoken to him of her regrets with a wistfulness she would refuse to let herself indulge in on the morrow. “I have waited for this long, and for what?” she had asked with regret in her voice. Her words had followed him saying that Aegnor had known her heart before she even did. Aegnor had known, and Angrod had approved of her choice even when he would sooner tease and pretend to find fault to cover the tenderness of his own emotions. Though they were not there in body, they had long known happiness for her in spirit – and better was it to feel that spirit linger than sully such an event with thoughts of mourning.  
  
“I have waited where once I may have simply _lived_ ," she continued, "and I have thus denied this day to those who could have rejoiced in its dawn alongside me. It is grief I feel as much as joy, and that grief is as bitter as my joy is sweet.”  
  
Her smile had pulled sadly at her mouth before she brusquely turned to wipe at her shinning eyes. She buried her grief, and instead turned the conversation to inquire of news from Nargothrond. “Two sons of Fëanor living underneath your roof?" she questioned - she having little liking for their half-uncles sons, and for Celegorm and Curufin less than all. "How do your halls still stand?” And that was that.  
  
Now Finrod stood on the sidelines of the wedding feast, and tried to find a serenity to match his sister's. It had been easy for most of the day, but now he was given time to reflect, standing still in his place with wine in hand. Such a pose did little to aid his restless mind, and he knew better than to give the shadowed parts of his mind a stillness in which to thrive in.  
  
Helping him – or, at the very least, turning his mind from his thoughts, for he was not one to normally indulge in melancholy – were the eyes of Doriath that constantly turned to him with speculation in their depths. The Doriathrim had already celebrated two marriages linking together the House of Finwë and the House of Elwë, and they wished to find a third. Even Thingol himself had been none too subtle in his commenting on the joys of matrimony and the peace of spirit that came with sharing one's centuries with a much loved mate. He did not know what Finrod could not speak of, and Melian's gentle understanding was enough to turn her husband away from his course in some instances, but not all.  
  
As if summoned by his thoughts, the bride Doriath would choose for him said in a warm voice from behind him: “You are not dancing.”  
  
Finrod turned to see Lúthien herself at his back, and he bowed in greeting to her – feeling the exact moment when the eyes of many in the hall turned to them with great interest – interest, and a speculation that bordered greatly on hope.  
  
“Alas, I have not your love for the art,” Finrod allowed himself to smile in reply – an expression that Lúthien was always ready to return, “Nor am I blessed with your light feet.”  
  
“But neither are your feet made of stone, and I shall not allow them to be your roots. Come,” she said, and where Lúthien commanded, Finrod obeyed.  
  
The couples spinning to Daeron's waltz gracefully made room for them, and he settled into an easy rhythm with Doriath's princess. They had known each other for centuries now, and there was almost something safe about dancing with her – for her eyes never asked for more, even where the court wondered and hoped, and she seemed to find as much amusement in their wondering as he did. And, he let himself admit, she _was_ beautiful - as lovely as the twilight, much as the songs would say - and it was a true pleasure to lead her through the steps of the dance. She was an enchantment made flesh in her midnight blue gown, with the white flowers in the inky shade of her hair glowing like stars in the depths of night. For a moment, he let himself appreciate the look and feel of her with a Noldo appreciation for art and fair creation. And yet, while her beauty brought him joy, it did not draw him to ask for more - and the image of golden hair and a delicate face, perhaps imperfect when compared to the Fairest-born, drew his heart to stutter and skip even when viewed through the foggy glass of memory.  
  
“You are bearing up quite nicely this eve,” she finally said, raising a dark brow at those who watched them. At the head of the hall, even Thingol leaned forward in interest - he being a father eager to see a much loved child happy and wed. “The court grows exceedingly bold,” Lúthien exaggerated a sigh, “and yet, I fear that they will only turn all the more daring with each case of wine opened.”  
  
“It is a true flaw that you so enjoy teasing your people so,” Finrod reprimanded playfully as he spun her. “You enjoy antagonizing their wondering - or else, you would not have asked me to dance.”  
  
“I do not know what you mean,” Lúthien's eyes glittered. “And yet, you _did_ agree to dance with me. Thus so, the wickedness you accuse me of bearing is shared.”  
  
“I had no choice – you did not leave one to me,” he continued to tease. He set his face into a look of serious contemplation and said, “You do not know - perhaps I only agreed to dance with you so as to keep Thranduil from starting another toast. He cannot call the attention of the crowd if we keep it so.”  
  
“He has been planning what he would say this eve for centuries,” Lúthien tucked away a bemused smile at her kinsman's expense. “And Celeborn enjoys his friend's well-wishing, no matter how much he may roll his eyes. Your sister too is amused where she would rather not be, I think.” Lúthien's gaze found the bride and groom in the crowd, She stared for a moment, before saying in a soft, sincere voice: “Galadriel looks happier than I have yet known her to be.”  
  
“She is as content as I have ever seen her, I agree,” Finrod echoed her words, warmth filling him for his sister's joy. “Aman never quite suited her – for in the West she was as a queen where there were already ancient crowns aplenty to be found. Here she has found meaning and belonging where she could only search for it in my grandfather's halls.”  
  
“My mother rejoices for her,” Lúthien said after a moment. “Galadriel embraces Melian's arts in a way I never could. I may learn them, I may wield them, but they _are_ your sister, and my mother delights in teaching her.”  
  
“We all find our places, in one way or another,” Finrod nodded at her words, unsure if he was speaking of Galadriel and her belonging or Lúthien's searching for that same purpose in life. Though the Sindarin princess loved her people, and served them well, there were some years when she would not enter Menegroth for venturing far in the forests – and many were the times when she had asked leave to visit Tol Sirion before its fall, or great Nagothrond to the west out of curiosity for the world beyond her own. Each time she had been denied, and while Finrod more than understood Thingol's caution, there were times when that caution chaffed about Lúthien's endless days like a plow burdening a too spirited horse.  
  
“And you?” Lúthien asked after a moment, her eyes flickering to reflect his thoughts, “Have you since found your place here?”  
  
“I know a purpose in Ennor,” Finrod answered after a moment's thought. “I love Nargothrond, and I have found no greater joy than in coming to know the sons of Men – a knowing that would have been impossible to me in Aman. My purpose in aiding – and endeavoring to understand – this world brings me true contentment.”  
  
“You have found your belonging,” she said, her voice soft.  
  
“As you could say,” he inclined his head. At the time of his departure, he, like most, had only known Aman for the walls it represented – and for those walls turning into open doors he had known a true joy. At the time, he had thought his decision to be his only choice, his only option. He did not know how he could have chosen any differently – and he would not have, were it not for . . .  
  
“And yet?” Lúthien saw the thought in his eyes. Her humor from the beginning of their dance had turned to a true concern – a sincere want to listen, and he found himself considering his answer. He wanted to speak of _her_ , he realized after a moment, surprised by that awareness. He felt driven by some force he could not explain, and -  
  
“Her name was Amarië,” Finrod found himself saying the name he had not once breathed since crossing the Ice, even before he had fully decided to share his tale. “She was Vanyar . . . a poet, gentle and kind; unable to fathom the idea of cruelty or bear to think of finding it here. She . . . she refused to make the crossing to Middle-earth, foreseeing only heartache in any home we could build. We were only betrothed, not bonded, and I was able to break ties with her in order to journey here.”  
  
Lúthien listened as they spun, inclining her head to his words to show that she was listening. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding.  
  
“At the time, I had thought that we had simply grown apart – and assumed, in my great wisdom,” there his words took on a self-deprecating note, “that we would continue to do so. I understood why she could not come, just as she knew why I could not stay. Perhaps, there is an abstract of idea of _someday_ to cling to for having my chance with her anew, but I do not have the right to hope that she will wait for me. I cannot hope for that, while I . . .”  
  
“You will love only her?” Lúthien finished softly.  
  
“Yes,” the one word was as a whisper – a throbbing pang touching his heart on a day that should have been nothing but rejoicing for the bonds of love. “Some days I think that I made the right decision, the _only_ decision, and yet . . .”  
  
“On other days,” she said, her eyes shadowed and far away, “you think love worth every risk . . . every sacrifice.” For a moment, he did not think that she spoke completely of him.  
  
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “And yet . . . even for that great truth, I was not strong enough to deny the desire of my heart, and remain with her.”  
  
“And she was not strong enough to follow you,” Lúthien returned. “You were not the only one to foreswear love's might.”  
  
“Perhaps,” he inclined his head. “But then, I am not the best one to speak to for love. My brother loved a human woman once,” he found himself strangely moved to speak – once again sharing this tale where he had spoken to it to none but Galadriel before. “Aegnor loved a wise-woman of the House of Bëor, and she loved him in return. I . . . I had once seen first hand the pains that could come from an uneven yoke between our races, and so, I sternly advised him against bonding himself to her – out of fear for his heart, as much as anything else. I reminded Aegnor of the follies of marrying in times of war, and enforced upon him the duty he bore to his people. While we have eternity to wait for times of peace, such a waiting is not possible for Mankind, and he could have argued an exception for this most unusual case – but he did not. Instead, Aegnor bowed to me, and broke off even the contact of a comrade and friend with her. He never told her of his feelings, and yet, it did not matter - Andreth knew. Their relationship amounted to nothing, but even so, she still refused to marry a man of her own kind for the memory of so greatly loving him. In the great irony of fate, Aegnor died in the Dagor Bragollach, and she lived beyond him to be old and grey with her years - falling asleep to claim the Gift only five winters ago. I . . . there are times when I cannot help but think . . . what right did I have to counsel him so? Many hardships would have been theirs if they chose a life together, and bittersweet would have been their doom - if not all but bitter in their final days. And yet . . . they would have been happy in the time they could have had. They would have been _happy_ , and yet . . .”  
  
He looked, and found that Lúthien was listening carefully – intently, even. Where it was first the attentiveness of a friend he had known from her, there was now something deliberate about the way she held herself. There was something almost too serene about her countenance – as if she was trying to hold the exact shape of her interest away from him, as strange as the idea was.  
  
“Perhaps,” Finrod admitted uncomfortably, “Aegnor knew better than me. I thought myself doing good by him – and I thought his to be the wise choice at the time, no matter the pain his decision inflicted on both he and his lady. And yet . . . ”  
  
He looked over at his sister – finally reaching out and grasping her happiness, and he felt a bittersweet ache for thinking so. She looked content – _complete_ – dancing in her husband's arms; complete as she never would have been with solely seeing new lands and savoring the experiences of a new world. It was possible to find completion in another being, he had once believed that simple fact to be an absolute truth. And yet, that knowing was one he had sadly failed to live up to throughout his days.  
  
“ . . . perhaps I was wrong, not to think love strong enough to bear up to every trial,” he finally whispered, unable to say anything more than that. "It's bearing has to be stronger than my belief, I have finally come to decide."  
  
Lúthien followed his gaze, finding Galadriel and Celeborn, twined silver and gold, as they spun together through Daeron's waltz. Her eyes were shadowed then – something troubled her, he could tell. Concerned, he paused in their dance, drawing her to the side of the twirling couples so as to better make out her expression. Concerned, he tilted up her chin to see tears shining in her eyes. She looked as if she had come to an understanding, as strange as that may have seemed. Yet, it took him a moment to realize that her tears were not only from sorrow. She looked awed – wondrous, even - and Finrod puzzled to understand exactly why.  
  
“Lady, what inspires your tears?” he asked, concerned.  
  
She looked as if she wished to tell him. She opened her mouth, she hesitated, and then -  
  
\- a cheer went through the crowd as another round of toasting was proposed for the bride and groom with the song's end. They both looked, and saw where Thranduil and Orodreth were pouring wine into each other's glasses, and then raising their goblets in a toast - much to the amusement and delight of the crowd. Only Daeron looked put out for the interruption to his song, and the crowd laughed anew when Thranduil had an entire flask passed to the minstrel to sooth his ire.  
  
Amused, Finrod shook his head at their antics – his eyes finding where Galadriel raised a golden brow in Thranduil's direction. By her side, Celeborn just barely hid his smile by covering his mouth with his hand. He too could not help his own smile in reply to the joy in the air. And yet, by the time Finrod looked back to Lúthien, whatever storm of emotion that had taken her was already carefully hidden away. She looked on him with a secret sort of warmth, but whatever inspired it, she did not speak of.  
  
“Each of his speeches turn all the more inspired as the night draws on,” she said instead, and tugged on his arm to turn him back to the revelry. “You would think that my father would order the wine watered right about now, would you not?”  
  
And with that, Finrod put his strange and heavy thoughts aside, and let himself think of nothing more than the happiness of the feast.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Orodreth and Galathil's wives are named by me, as was the expansion on their relation to one another a bit of my head-canon. Actually, there were lots of little Sindar-head-canon tidbits in here, now that I think about it.
> 
> And I also have to mention, that if you subscribe to Orodreth rather being Angrod's son à la Tolkien's later works, feel free to overwrite that in your mind. I am not particularly invested as to either family tree, but having him as another one of Arafinwë's sons just worked out here, and I ran with it. :)


	55. "how many hours I spent, reading his skin"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod/Amarië || Prompt: _Surface_ , Free-write
> 
> A brief note - the snippets of poetry, and the title itself are both stolen from the amazing Nayyirah Waheed, whom I just discovered, much to my soul's delight.

She once had an instructor tell her that without pain, there could be no beauty; that without strife, there could be no true understanding of peace. It was this her poems lacked, her verses were passed back to her as her tutor's eyes already turned to another roll of parchment. _Find the conflict, find the strife; then lift the reader up through verse – for_ _this is the_ _true role of a poet . . ._ _U_ _nless_ _you are content_ _writing about_ _your_ _flowers and woodland creatures._  
  
But Amarië knew not of strife; she had never known of pain, and no matter how she tried to read of the Great Journey or the Beginning of Days, the stories still felt like that to her – stories. They were tales as far off as the stars, no matter that they outlined the history of her people.  
  
 _And yet_ , her instructor had countered, _You_ _know_ _love. In that, there is every feeling and more,_ _is there not?_  
  
 _Yes_ , she bowed her head in reply, a faint blush tainting her cheeks, _but in my love, there is no pain._  
  
Amarië tried, nonetheless, and put aside her urge to write about the white spring flowers with their smiling yellow faces, and ignored the hummingbirds who restlessly flickered from one happy bloom to the next. She sat in the long grass underneath the boughs of a great oak tree, and tried her best to write while Findaráto rested his head in her lap. Playfully, he flicked grass seeds at her whenever her brow furrowed too deeply in concentration, chasing her rhymes from her pen. His smile was as infectious as the Treelight, she could not help but think – and truly, how could she write of strife and overcoming shadow when all she felt was the opposite in her heart? All she felt was light, and she would not call herself lacking or missing in spirit for the joy she knew, no matter how simple its shape.  
  
Her people had journeyed to Aman to escape the darkness of the hither lands across the sea. A part of her almost felt as if she were dishonoring the Valar's gift if her words even hinted at a discontentment of spirit, no mater how haunting Rúmil's verses were . . . no matter how chillingly Elemmírë could recite her words, as if she still walked the starlit ways of Endórë far beyond . . .  
  
Amarië said a quick prayer, apologizing for her moment of weakness in doubting the glory of her home – much as she had ever been taught to do. Had Findaráto not been there, she would have bowed in the direction of Taniquetil and pressed her forehead to the soil as a symbol of her devotion. But he was there, and for all of his gentle smiles and lovely ease, he was still Noldor in part, and he did not understand – nor would he ever.  
  
Above, the skies took on a pale shadow of cloud. While there were rains in Aman to feed the ground and growing things rooted therein, it never quite stormed outside of the far north or south, where the land was still wild in nature. Even still, she felt as if she could convey such a natural violence, and she set her mouth - ready to shape her words.  
  
Later, Findaráto read her verse, and raised a golden brow in reply. “You poets,” he teased, “you are always taking everything so personally - even the weather.” And that was that.  
  
Amarië placed her failed poem down, and instead wrote about the flowers in the field, about the light she held in her hands when Findaráto teased her away from her work with first one kiss and then two – more than she should have allowed, really – and she did not look back to her clumsy attempts at writing about storms.  
  
Then the Darkening came.  
  
Even without the Trees' light to see by, she could still make out the lines of face in the hazy glow from the lamplight. She knew his decision as well as he knew her own, and she could not, she _would_ not . . . He kissed her goodbye then, a violent and desperate embrace where she had only known softness and spring from him before. His fingers would leave bruises at her waist, and yet, she allowed him to try to fold her inside himself - as if by doing so, he could keep her with him. In that moment, a far off part of her thought to understand the nature of storms.  
  
In the end, it only took her one night to miss his place by her side. It took her a year to regret her decision entirely, wishing then that she had braved the sea for the sundering she knew in her spirit. Yet, it was not until the Sun dawned for the first that she put her pen to paper and truly start to _write_.  
  
Amarië wrote and wrote and _wrote_ ; she wrote about the bonds of kin sundered by Shadow, and the bittersweet hope for justice and _more_ that awaited her people beyond the sea. She wrote of her missing, of her pain – shared by hundreds of others: all of them sisters and mothers and wives with parts of their souls vacant and incomplete. She wrote until even Elemmírë paused at her words, and her verses were added to the ever growing Aldunenië– the great lament that told of the Darkening of the Trees and the days after.  
  
She thought that she learned strength in those days. She obeyed the wishes of the family, the wishes of the Valar – for how could she not, when her loyalty was what she had defined her entire life and character on? She had even obeyed her own wanting - inspired by the frail fear in her own heart . . . but love? _Love._ She had failed to find that one truth stronger than all others, and now, she could not help but wonder - was there truly any force greater than that which she had denied?  
  
She had thought herself strong for ignoring the tug that would have drawn her to Middle-earth and far beyond. She had thought that strength to deepen as she suffered for the full scope of her ignorance. But, now . . .  
  
When Arafinwë himself visited Valmar to personally tell her how his son fell in death – for the Noldo-king was ever with his family due to the Sight of his second eyes – she could not let him finish his tale for the violent burning in her heart.  
  
“Stop,” she pleaded on a small voice. She had been unable to hear any more – and she had not been able to make it to the gardens before her stomach heaved wretchedly, betraying the strict command she bore over her body. Her skin itched as if imagining the claws of wolves, and even the happiest yellow blooms in the flowerbeds seemed to be lupine eyes staring at her from a matted face of fur.  
  
Amarië shuddered, and yet, she found that she could not immediately pray and ask the Valar for strength. Her supplication came awkwardly to her lips, and she could not feel the verse pierce her heart in its entirety as it had so many times before. In the end, she prayed only to Námo, and asked him to hold dear what she now knew herself to hold dearer than all.  
  
It took centuries for her supplications to be answered, but when she at last stood in the garden of Lórien behind Arafinwë and Eärwen, waiting, watching . . .  
  
Findaráto looked unchanged when he was admitted to them. He was robed simply in white, blinking as if the light was too bright for his eyes. His _eyes._ They were much as she remembered them - an unshadowed blue, free of the pain and fear that must have accompanied his end. His skin was absent of scar and memory of death, where before his body must have bore ribbons of red as it failed him. She embraced him, weeping, when he at last turned to her – all of her great words pushed aside by the scent and feel of him, real once more.  
  
His hands made fists in her hair, once, before relaxing – the only sign she had as to the tempestuousness of his emotions, and then there was only the gentleness that came with rebirth and second chances.  
  
This time, she allowed only as much time as he needed before accepting his suit once more. They were married underneath the light of the setting Sun rather than the glory of the waxing Trees, but she could have wed him in complete darkness for the joy in her heart – the _rightness_ of spirit she felt, greater she would later reflect, for the pain she had long known while parted from him.  
  
And, for a while, they were happy.  
  
Yet, the knowledge came to her by intervals . . . the idea that her husband was holding back from her. She was beginning to know the halls of his mind as well as her own, and intimately did she now know the shape of his soul. And yet, there were corners of his being that were hidden from her – sheltered away from sight. There were ways in his mind that existed not in light, and every time she tried to explore them – to share their burden – he would gently steer her away.  
  
Findaráto never spoke of his years in Middle-earth, and she hid her poems of the Darkening away where he would not find them. A part of her wanted to show him, a part of her wanted to hear what he would share in return – but she was not quite sure how to bring that matter to light. She did not know how to assure him of the strength of heart when he had only known it for its weakness, and the half-life that resulted was one that frustrated her as she was sure that it must have burdened him.  
  
. . . and then, there were nights where dark dreams would burden his mind, even amongst the golden bliss of Valinor. Findaráto would wake up shaking, clench his hands in the sheets, and then rise from the bed completely with his brow narrowed and troubled. The first time, she had tried to ask him what ailed him, but she received no satisfactory answer in reply. Each time since, she had simply lain there while he grappled with his demons in silence - wanting to ease the burden he bore, but unsure of precisely how.  
  
She went to the gardens of Lórien once to better pray to Námo, and found the dread Vala easily summoned to the forefront of her consciousness. She spoke to him of her fears, of her concerns, and the Lord of Souls listened as if he did not have the great song of the living and the dying at the forefront of his mind. She felt his eyes fix on her, silent as he let her small voice speak of her troubles.  
  
 _His is a soul who died a violent death; full of pain and fear._ After she finished pouring out her heart, Námo alone did not shield her from the truth of the matter. His was a strange voice; the sound of a heart beating and storm-winds rushing, rather than any sound that mouths and lungs could utter. _His spirit remembers, no matter that his body is new – and_ _his spirit tries to make_ _sense of its death through dreams._  
  
Amarië took in a deep breath. It shuddered in her lungs when she tried to let it out.  
  
And still, the Vala lingered. He paused. _Does he share this burden alone?_ Námo asked gently, and she shook her head in an instinctive denial.  
  
 _No_ , she answered, _of course not._  
  
Another pause. The sound of heartbeats softened, turning to what she imagined a child would hear in the womb. _Go home to your husband, child, and think of what I have said._ It was not warmth she felt from Death, but understanding, and she bolstered herself on Námo's grace. She imagined that it strengthened her bones and lined her lungs.  
  
Even still, she was not sure of what to say when she returned home. She was not sure what to say, and yet . . .  
  
She brought out her collection of long resting poems, and let them see the light. She tore off first one piece of parchment, and then another – placing one where she knew that he would first look to with his tea in the morning, and another in the pocket of his favourite cloak. Another and another she mixed in with the pages of his books, in his piles of letters, beneath his pens - placing them until there was not a corner in the house where they would not be found.  
  
 _I lied_ , one line whispered. _I told you I was not afraid to love you . . . then I walked away . . .and loved you._  
  
And another – _Both. I want to stay. I want to leave. I am three oceans away from my soul._  
  
Another and another and another he read, gathering the poems together and placeing them by the own books whose blank pages he was filling with the history of their people's deeds in Endórë beyond. She had not yet read a page of his work, but perhaps, soon . . .  
  
That night, when the dreams came, she watched the now familiar routine, and waited. An inhale came first; sharp in shape. Then: his hands, fisting in sheets. Third: slowly, he sat upright, lowering his head to fit in his hands, as if its weight was a burden to him. Then, finally: an exhale, long and deep.  
  
This time, Amarië too sat up from the sheets. She placed her hand on his shoulder. She waited, and felt his body struggle as he forced his breathing to calm. She could feel his spirit move in restless and trembling waves as he tried to keep his thoughts from her. And yet, this time, she did not let him. She felt for his mind like a light in the dark, and -  
  
“No,” Findaráto whispered a moment later. “It was only a passing dream. You may go back to sleep.”  
  
Perhaps, once, she would have.  
  
“Is it Tol Sirion that plagues you?” she whispered instead. She traced her palm from one shoulder to the next, sweeping aside the long fall of his hair to better touch his skin. She felt him shudder.  
  
A moment passed. “It no longer matters.” He would not lie to her.  
  
“Ever does this continue to haunt your nights,” Amarië whispered when he moved away from her. She followed him with her eyes when he stood. “How can you tell me that it does not matter?”  
  
“This is my price for leaving,” Findaráto said. “I wish not to burden you with it.”  
  
“Then, is this to be my price for staying?” she asked. Her voice was still soft, even where her words at last found their strength. “I may hold you, but you are still an ocean away from me.”  
  
“I do not want to burden you,” Findaráto's voice was heartbreakingly gentle. He looked at her earnestly, with so much love in his eyes that it _hurt_.  
  
“But this burdens _you_ ,” Amarië returned, standing so that she could come to peer into his eyes. She was not tall enough to rest her hands on his shoulders, and instead she laid them flat against his chest. For the deceptive calm of his expression, his heart thundered against the cage of his ribs. “Do you not see how that is also a pain to me? I . . . I no longer write about flowers,” she whispered, wanting . . . _needing_ him to understand.  
  
“And yet . . . I wish that you did,” he whispered, looking down to give his words to the floor between them. Softly, he covered her hands with his own.  
  
“Then, beloved,” her voice was low to match. She reached out, and tilted up his chin to see his eyes, “Give me a reason to do so.”  
  
He peered at her closely – weighing her, judging her - no doubt remembering the girl he once knew and considering the woman who stood before him now. In the end, she was not sure if it was faith in her that turned his mind, or the simple wish he had to share his burdens with someone – _anyone_ \- while hoping that she truly bore the strength she said she did.  
  
When he inclined his head, she knew that she had prevailed. She drew him back to their bed, and he followed. She curled up against him, and he held her close as he began his story. She listened, both hearing his words and seeing flashes of memory from his mind, no matter how he tried to keep them from her. He whispered, his words turning lower and lower as they reached his time on Sauron's isle; detailing how the Dark Maia's cruel torments turned all the more creative when he refused to give the spirit-lord the information he sought. At first, Findaráto tried to gloss over that part of his memory – but she persisted. She shared his words and pains until her stomach turned with that which his body had endured. Worse than his own afflictions was watching as each of his men were tormented, and then mercifully released to Námo in death . . . and he listened . . . he watched, helpless to intervene.  
  
She traced out lines on his skin as his memory showed to her his hurts, even though no scar remained. Tenderly, she mapped out paths of cruelty and pain, hoping to replace them with memories of softness . . . of warmth. He could not speak of his own death, and she instead lived that final moment with the wolf in his mind, forcing her consciousness to stay entwined with his as she touched his mind with as much love and light as she could summon.  
  
He buried his head against her chest at the memory's end. His arms were tight around her, as if she were roots grounding him in a storm. His fingertips were white, near enough to bruise, but she did not care as she made absent noises to sooth him – sharing his pains and making them her own. She was ready to do so until hopefully, someday, they would be no more.  
  
It took him a long while to find his voice, but when he finally did, he whispered, “It was more than my vow to Barahir that had me aid Beren in his quest. It was more than my love of Bëor, and my respect for his descendants . . . Beren, he was fighting for a woman he loved. He was fighting where all seemed hopeless, and so catching was his belief . . . This mortal man was _fighting_ ; fighting as I did not fight, and it humbled me. It was for Aegnor's memory that I pledged my aid to Beren, even when foreseeing the death that awaited me . . . It was for Aegnor . . . for you,” and here his voice broke. For a moment, he could not speak.  
  
“Beren reminded me of a truth I had long denied,” he continued. “If I had to again choose to set myself before the jaws of the wolf so that he could live for his love . . . I would. I would a hundred times over. It was worth it in the end . . . for all of the pains they shared, all the grief that their journey bore, there was _love_ there more than all, and that made any sacrifice of mine more than worth it in the end.”  
  
Amarië closed her eyes tight against his words. Tears touched her eyes, but they were not only of grief. She had nothing she could say in reply that – there was nothing any of her great words could say to match the great warmth that she was trying to hold inside of her bones. Such a love filled her then, and it was not only her own feeling so, but what she felt from his mind, as well. She could not speak, and, instead . . .  
  
She held him close, and listened to a poem of skin and memory.


	56. "nothing false or possible is love"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emeldir/Barahir; Beren/Lúthien; Andreth & Beren || Prompt: _Bothered, Bewitched, Bewildered_ \- Free-write
> 
> In which I play fast and easy with canon in order to get my Andreth and Beren conversation - for which I am unrepentant. That pretty much sums this one up. ;) Oh, and there are Bëorians in this one. Lots and lots of Bëorians . . .

**Bothered  
  
** It was whispered by her people that if you walked through the pines to where the streams flowed away from the north, a pool would appear to those of pure heart looking to find it. This pool was an enchanted body of water that was rumored to show, not your own reflection, but rather - the exact likeness of your one true love.  
  
And yet, Emeldir Beren's daughter never put much stock in those sort of things, nor had she ever. Rather, she tended to believe in the strength of her own hands; the sight of her own eyes. She did not smile wistfully for the idea of a pool of water telling her of her fate when she could better forge it through her own means, her own doing.  
  
Of course, when Bareth's father arranged for her to be given in marriage to Baldur, the butcher's boy, the other girls of Ladros pushed and pulled – whispered and giggled – and drew their clanswoman into the woods underneath the cover of night to see what the pool would reveal. Emeldir too was pulled along by her friends when she would have rather not gone along. She kept her silence while the others laughed and eagerly whispered underneath the moonlight, quietly dubious and fairly certain that nothing but a generous amount of wine would reveal to them anything in this 'enchanted' pool.  
  
“It is said that Melian the Maia hallowed the Tarn Aeluin to the south of here,” Brennil – a pretty, plump girl with red-brown curls - whispered to Emeldir when her gaze still remained dubious. Some of the women tried to hush their companions when their giggles turned too loud in the dark, but that only made them laugh the more so. Emeldir frowned.  
  
“The water of that lake is most certainly enchanted,” Brennil continued, “even my father says so – and you would not accuse him of holding onto a simple belief. This pool eventually feeds into that lake, and its waters too are fraught with spell-craft.”  
  
“Emeldir thinks it beneath a Maia to bend her will in such a way, does she not?” Gelinnas heard them from the head of their group. As the one amongst their peers married the longest, and admittedly beautiful with her stunning crown of honey-blonde hair – rare amongst the dark headed Bëorians – Gelinnas held the ears and the attention of all of the young women in Ladros. Often, it had baffled her that Emeldir had not fought for a place by her side, but while the girl was proud for her position amongst her fellow women, she was not cruel or malicious . . . only, at times, her mouth could cut like a knife. For knowing of her words' bite, Emeldir raised a dark brow, not trusting anything she would have to say.  
  
“I think it foolhardy indeed to trust the happiness of one's heart to such mischief as magic,” Emeldir strongly voiced her opinion. “That is, if the pool bears such properties to begin with.”  
  
“And yet,” Gelinnas countered, “we all know the tale of Doriath's beginning. I do not find it difficult to believe that some of her enchantments have remained to linger with the earth. Perhaps Melian herself did not will the water to show such a thing, but rather, the water aided her unbidden – answering to her mere presence in the land.”  
  
“Perhaps,” still, Emeldir was not convinced. “I still believe that people see what they wish to see. The water does nothing more than allow your eyes to fool yourself into seeing one you have already chosen.”  
  
“Truly?” Gelinnas raised a perfectly slender brow. “And you, Emeldir Man-heart . . . do you already have a sweetheart in mind?”  
  
She waited a heartbeat before answering, “No,” all the while wondering what Gelinnas was aiming to accomplish through her words. Emeldir turned her chin up, ignoring the giggles from the other girls – who had turned away from the bride-to-be in order to observe this much more interesting development to the night's events.  
  
“Then,” Gelinnas' brown eyes flashed triumphantly. They were nearly black in the moonlight. “If you have no sweetheart chosen, we will know the magic to be true when you look, will we not?”  
  
Emeldir fought the urge she had to make a face. She halted on the path, only to back into Brennil, who placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. The other girl had been her playmate since before she could remember, and her eyes held a rather worrying determination that matched Gelinnas'– only, hers was founded in a different emotion entirely.  
  
“Yes,” Brennil seconded the older woman. “After all, if the magicks are faulty, we do not want to subject poor Bareth to the pool showing her someone other than her intended, do we not?”  
  
“Yes, let Emeldir try it!” another voice seconded.  
  
“If it will even work for her,” yet another voice teased. “I find it hard to imagine any man catching her eye.” The voice was well-meaning, but even so, Emeldir felt her cheeks color.  
  
Few were the times when Emeldir would call her life so far a hindrance rather than a much loved course. She had no mother; but she had her father and her brothers – each of whom were dear to her heart and much cherished in her eyes. Even when her earliest lessons were how to string bows and fishing lines rather than how to set thread for embroidering patterns, she had never counted herself the lesser for her her unique cast of knowing. _Man-heart_ , she was named for her pride and her courage, and where such a title and skills did not set her high as a potential bride, she had told herself that she did not care much for that anyhow. It would take a special man to compliment her, rather than chain her down, she had long known. Rather than setting her up with the first match offered to him, her father had counseled her to wait - and even her brothers had frequently hinted that they would have no qualms about making sure an unequal suitor had an unfortunate run-in with a bear-trap if need be.  
  
For now, Emeldir set her jaw, and met Gelinnas' eyes without flinching. “First,” she said coolly. “We must find this pool.”  
  
“Do not worry, Man-heart . . . we are here,” Gelinnas tilted her head, and pushed aside the branches of an old pine to show them a hollow in the thick wood. Emeldir looked, and saw where a small waterfall tumbled merrily into a pool of still water, a blue so dark it was almost black. The stars from above danced over the surface of the pool, and fireflies glowed golden and warm the shadows, cheerfully glowing for the last warm days of summer.  
  
Emeldir carefully approached the water, walking as if she approached a serpent instead. She looked down, and saw stones stacked around the bank, each with names carved into their faces – couples for whom the pool had predicted truly, she would wager. Emeldir raised a brow at the tribute, and yet, she still believed nothing.  
  
“What do I do now?” she asked Gelinnas, trying to ignore the giggles and twittering voices rising behind her as the other girls squeezed themselves into the small clearing.  
  
“You look, and hope that your heart is pure enough for the pool to grant you your wish,” Gelinnas waved her hand to the water in a graceful motion. “Look now, and tell us what you see.”  
  
“Beside my own reflection, you mean?” Emeldir still shook her head, trying to feign a look of bored amusement as she knelt down by the water. She could feel where Brennil came to hover over her shoulder, her friend ever anxious that she should find love and know the joy of tending one's hearth and home. While Emeldir did not _not_ wish for those things, she was content waiting for the right match, and no pool would tell her the path her heart should take.  
  
At first, she kept her eyes on the stars reflected in the pool, and nothing else. Strange, she thought, that the stars in the water were not the same constellations shining up above. They had shifted. It was as if the pool held a memory, a voice that was not her own whispered to her – for the Maia-queen's spells had wheeled while the stars set themselves in the sky and the forests themselves grew to maturity. She now looked at those same young stars, she understood in a distant sort of way, and it was when she went to touch their reflected light in awe that -  
  
The pool swirled, slowly at first, but then more surely. It rippled, as if considering, and then the image in the water shifted.

Emeldir looked, and saw her own face – the sharp angles of her cheekbones . . . the almond shape of her eyes . . . the thin line of her nose. Her brown hair was black in the dark, and its mass was bound away in a thick braid over her shoulder, where it nearly dipped into the pool with her leaning over its surface. Each sight was familiar to her, and yet . . .  
  
Slowly . . . the water turned. At first, it was only her eyes that were not her own. They narrowed in shape, and their color turned from green to a clear shade of pale blue, shining out from underneath a strong, dark brow. She watched the face of the man as it formed, surprised to see that she recognized the square, handsome features and the dark black hair of -  
  
“It cannot be!” Brennil stood up straight, and clapped her hands in delight. She gave a breathless little laugh. “It works!” she turned to the other girls. “It has worked for Emeldir, and she has seen Barahir, son of Bregor, who now leads us as the heir of Bëor our forefather! Of all the possible suitors . . . ” her voice tapered off to make a joyful sound, her smile full and beaming on her face.  
  
“The Chieftain’s son?” Gelinnas stammered. “But how can that be?” Her eyes widened in surprise as she stepped forward, wanting to see proof for herself, but Emeldir reached out and sloshed her hand through the water, destroying the reflection with a splash. Doing so caused a nearly physical pang to thrum in her chest, and she set her mouth at that strange sensation more than anything else.  
  
“I saw nothing,” she said, tilting her chin up proudly as she stood from the water. “Brennil is too good a friend for me, and sees what she wishes to see.”  
  
Brennil looked at her oddly, and she opened her mouth to protest her words - but it did not matter. Half of the girls believed her denial (out of jealousy, she thought, for the chieftain’s eldest son had already chosen a bride, and Barahir his brother was now the most eligible bachelor in Dorthonion), and the other half did not care. Instead, they were already pushing forward, eager to find their own loves reflected in the pool.  
  
Emeldir remained, and lingered on the edge of the clearing, but she did not take much notice of the rest of the night's proceeding. Instead, she stood out of the way, lost in her thoughts as they raced. She had clearly seen _his_ face in the pool – for, that part of the tales had been true, and there was indeed a spell on the water of the strongest sort. And yet . . . did what the spell reveal _mean_ anything? Should she count on it to define her future? Such enchantments were fickle, she could not help but think. She would still rather believe in forging her own way, and yet . . .  
  
She would be lying to herself if she said that Barahir had not caught her eye dozens of times over the years with both his restless courage and his warm humor. He was dear to both of her brothers – who would be his captains when they all grew to take on more leadership and responsibility amongst their people. Both Barahir and her brothers were determined to fight for the House of Finarfin, and they were eager to play their part in the Siege of Angband. And yet, Barahir had never once looked beyond the dust of the training fields to notice her standing there, practicing at the edges. She was invisible to him, or worse – she was like another one of the _men_ in her brother's shadows, an unnatural creature holding both sword and longbow, and -  
  
Emeldir swallowed. The motion was tight about her throat.  
  
Over the next few days, she felt as a stranger in her own skin. She could not settle herself in stillness, and she had to fight the nearly tangible urge she had to return to the pool and look on his reflection again. This, she stubbornly refused to do – for enchantments were cruel, and could be false. She would trust them not. Instead, she was determined to wrestle her heart underneath control in her own way. This, she was resolved to do.  
  
Instead of turning south in the wood, she turned north and followed that same stream to where it pooled at the base of a thundering waterfall. There she sat, and set her nets to fish amongst the running salmon in the shallow water. The solitude of the pine forest soothed her, and the cool volcanic stone, jutting up in majestic shapes alongside the river, gave her the perfect setting to return her sensibilities back to where they belonged. For two days she knew peace, watching where the salmon struggled to make their way upstream, and listening to the great waterfall as it rumbled. The crooked cascade was over forty feet tall, rushing and white where it poured through a carved cleft in the stone to tumble down into the deep pool below. Beyond the white spray, the water was deep and blue, playing a dramatic backdrop to the salmon when they flashed pink and red against the surface. Emeldir watched, her eyes entranced.  
  
It was near sundown on her third day in the forest when she became aware of a trampling sound in the woods. The sound of voices and hurried steps crashing through the underbrush came from up above, she realized. There was one shout, inarticulate to her ears, and then another voice answered – yet, that was all the warning she had before she saw two ragged and clearly flustered figures throw themselves over the lip of the waterfall, down into the pool below.  
  
Emeldir scrambled out of the way to avoid the wave of water that splashed over her place on the rocks. Seeing where the two men landed in the water, she tried in vain to draw her nets in before they were ruined by the weight of the intruders – but it was too late. She felt the tension in the net give way, and a dozen fish then flopped free. One, amusingly, landed right in the lap of the furthest man where he sat, stunned, in the shallow water, clearly winded by his fall. Or, she reflected, it would have been amusing if she was not preoccupied by the ruined remains of her hard work. That net had taken her six weeks to weave. _Six_.  
  
“Did we lose her?” the man asked as he wiped his sodden hair from his face. Emeldir raised a brow, not understanding – that was, until she heard a roar at the lip of the waterfall. She looked up to see where a massive brown bear stood on her hind legs to bare her teeth at the water below. She growled out her challenge, and yet, she clearly had no interest in following the human men down the way they went. After a moment, she instead settled down on her forepaws once more. She gave them one last hard look, ruffled her fur in a miffed annoyance, and then turned back the way she had came.  
  
“Yes,” the other man – who too had collapsed in the shallows - peered back up the waterfall. “I do believe that she has refused to make the jump.”  
  
“She is wiser than us, then,” the first man moaned, standing unsteadily in the water as he placed a hand gingerly on his back. He was scraped and bruised from his tumble down the rocks, but he did not look damaged beyond that, she thought.  
  
“It is not difficult to be wiser than you, Bregolas,” the second said in amusement, standing more slowly than the first. Emeldir could only see the line of his shoulders with his back to her, but she _knew_ that broad line and the black shade of his hair – dark even before his spill in the water. She looked dumbly in surprise and shock, and saw where recognition flickered in the first's eyes when he finally noticed her standing on the stone bank.  
  
“And yet, while we no longer have to worry about the bear, we do have apologies to make, it seems,” Bregolas' cheeks flushed pink as he gestured to his brother. “Greetings, Beren's daughter!” he called over to her. “How are you on this finest of eves?”  
  
“Well enough,” she found her voice, placing her hands on her hips and raising a brow so as to better hide the urge she had to flush and stare as Barahir too turned to face her. “And yet, it seems as if all my hard work has been ruined by two rocks tumbling from the sky.”  
  
“A thousand apologies, my lady,” Bregolas said. He tried to move away from the ruin of her net, but he only succeeded in trapping his boot further in the tangled mesh.  
  
“Although, we are most obliged for its use,” Barahir said as he more carefully untangled himself. He picked up the ruined strands as Bregolas stumbled in the water, slipping on the slick river-stones underfoot.  
  
She heaved a sigh, and managed a wry smile. “Better you ruin my catch than you feed the bear yourselves,” she said. “You are welcome to my nets any time you have need of them.”  
  
“Never let it be said that Beren's daughter is not gracious,” Bregolas said, even as Barahir said, “Indeed, we owe you a debt, my lady.”  
  
“Please, call me Emeldir, my lords. You have known me long enough to use my name,” she waved their pleasantries aside. “And there is no debt standing that I would suffer to see paid.”  
  
“Then, you may call me Bregolas in return,” Bregolas flashed a charming smile, one that his blue eyes glittered with. He was, she thought – and knew from too many woman who had succumbed to that same smile – unfortunately handsome. “And this buffoon,” he looped an arm over his brother's shoulders, “who could not aim and shoot the bear standing _right in front_ _of him,_ you may call Barahir.”  
  
Barahir shrugged his brother aside in favor of looking at the ruined strands of her net. He muttered underneath his breath, and then started the rather tricky business of pulling the net completely ashore.  
  
“She was a mother bear,” Barahir defended himself, his last word hissed from his mouth as he slipped in the water. He ducked his head to hide where his cheeks flushed pink, yet, she saw where his eyes found hers from underneath the tangled strands of his hair. “We were fishing too close to her den, and she felt her cubs threatened. I would not harm that which I had rightfully angered,” he continued, “especially when doing so would leave the little ones on their own.”  
  
“Such a soft heart your bear,” Bregolas teased. And yet, he moved to help his brother with his net, nonetheless. “You would not have thought the same had her claws found your flesh.”  
  
“But they did not,” Barahir shrugged, and flashed a lopsided grin. “And now, we have each parted well enough with the other.”  
  
“All but for poor Emeldir here,” Bregolas winced when they succeeded in bringing the net completely ashore.  
  
She turned from their easy banter, and felt her face fall when she realized how much work it was going to take to repair the mesh. She sighed, fingering the wet cords with a dismayed hand.  
  
“It took me six weeks to weave this,” Emeldir whispered, dejected, before setting her face in a firm line once again. There was no use mourning it now, and best would it be to move onwards.  
  
Instead of continuing with her sighs, she pulled the net over to her spot on the rocks, and set about repairing what she could while she still had the light. The sun would soon start its decline in the sky, and she was determined to get a good start on repairing the damage.  
  
“At the very least, allow us to help you refresh your catch,” Bregolas offered. He was still standing in the river, and his smile was earnest. “It is the least we can do.”  
  
“You may do as you will,” she reached into her pack to draw out another twine of cord. She was careful not to look at Barahir for too long, lest he catch her gaze.“I had caught enough before you came, and I was already set to head back to Ladros with the morn'.”  
  
“Have you supped yet?” Bregolas tried next, clearly not willing to leave her be. “I do not mean to play the braggart, but I am rather handy when it comes to smoking fish. Hand me a knife and a fire, and I may make something for us all this eve.”  
  
She looked up, surprised by his offer. She caught the end of Barahir shooting his brother a strange look – one she could not quite define. Bregolas pointedly ignored his brother, and smiled a smile that was too wide about its corners. Emeldir frowned, feeling strangely on guard, even amongst clansmen.  
  
“If you would like,” she answered slowly. “I would not stop you.”  
  
“Excellent,” Bregolas put his hands together, and climbed out of the river when she pointed to the pack that had her supplies for cooking. He busied himself with starting a fire, and Barahir stood still for a moment, watching his brother with that same strange look on his face. Finally, Emeldir turned away.  
  
She pointedly went back to her work with the net, trying to ignore the way her heart was thundering in her chest. Her days of solitude had done much to help calm her thoughts and put her silly hopes at ease – or so she had thought. She had been content with the resolutions she had reached, and now, to have the subject of her frustrations so close when she had thought herself to do succeed in once again ordering her mind . . .  
  
Her hands were slippery with the cord, and her work was sloppy. She bit back the urge she had to curse – another one of her brothers' bad habits passed on to her - and grasped the mesh tighter in hand, determined to overcome the silly tremble in her fingers.  
  
A moment passed, and then a shadow joined hers on the rock. Through a supreme force of will, Emeldir forced herself not to glance up when Barahir sat down next to her. Without saying anything, he picked up her spool of cord, and started weaving the ruined patches along with her. She did not look at his face, but her down-turned eyes could see his hands – strong and graceful – and she felt an altogether different lurch settle deep in her stomach.  
  
“You are training for the north patrol,” she stated after a moment, seeing the skill with which he wove, “This is not normally a warrior's skill.” She looked up, and yet she did not have to worry for staring, for Barahir was carefully not looking at her – too carefully, she thought. She narrowed her eyes, puzzled.  
  
“No, it is not,” Barahir agreed. She watched, and saw where a blush again appeared on his face. “But, I have three older sisters, and a mother who wanted to make sure that I would never be a burden to another – especially a future wife - so, I know my needle-craft well enough. This is the same in principle.”  
  
“You are proof that a woman's arts and the ability to handle a sword are not two mutually separate things – perhaps, better would it be for all if the two were mixed more than they are,” Barahir said next, surprising her. “We see you mimic everything your brothers learn, and we have noticed your improvement. Why, last fall, when you broke poor Bregolon's nose when he went to challenge you - you gained more than one admirer on that day.”  
  
Emeldir blinked at him, not sure of what to say. She would have guessed him to think her attempting to learn the sword a silly endeavor – for it was a skill useless to a woman, and one that her weaker allotment of nature would never allow her to fully master, as most would say. Yet, she caught a flash of true admiration in his eyes, and there was no falsehood in his words. A strange, warm feeling settled in her bones in reply . . . one that she was not quick to push away.  
  
“I had not thought that anyone noticed,” she said after a moment, speaking underneath her breath. She was aware that her cheeks were flaming, but she was unsure of how to cool the heat that had touched her skin.  
  
“Bregolon still bears his crooked nose with pride,” Barahir gave a wry look. “He says that if he had to suffer such a blow, better be it from the Man-heart than any other – and he will brag of it to any who asks.”  
  
She snorted. “Now you are just teasing me.”  
  
“I am an heir of Bëor,” Barahir said with a glittering to his eyes, “It is to me to be the epitome of integrity and grace.”  
  
“Not so much with grace, though,” Emeldir teased before she could stop her words, holding up her end of the net to better emphasize her point – but she need not have worried for his offense in reply. Barahir only smiled, amused, and his smile caused a strange sort of sensation to settle over her chest, as if her rib cage was suddenly too heavy about her lungs.  
  
This close, she was able to see things she could not before – things that the pool had not even showed to her - like the flecks of grey in his eyes, and the faint, silvery scar that ran down from his ear to his jaw-line from some wound suffered and survived. She wanted to ask him of it, but her tongue felt tangled in her mouth, and she could not find her words.  
  
She felt a prickling sensation between her shoulder-blades, and had the curious idea that Bregolas was watching them both – closely, she could not help but think. She ducked her head again, and studied her work with the net intently.  
  
“And you,” Barahir said after some time had passed. When she looked up again, the sunlight had turned golden through the pine trees, and the smell of smoking fish filled the clearing around them. “You are out here, alone in the forest, harvesting salmon. It is a curious thing for a woman – even more curious than my knowing needle-craft, some would say.”  
  
“I needed to think,” she answered after a moment. “And there is no peace to be found in my household when my brothers know that a matter is weighing upon me. The forest is quiet, and it soothes my thoughts.”  
  
Emeldir looked up, and saw that Barahir was gazing intently at her. The heavy feeling on her chest grew, and she had to focus to find her breath. “Did you reach a resolution?” he asked.  
  
A heartbeat passed. “I do not know,” she answered honestly. “It still remains to be seen.”  
  
“I wish your thoughts the best, then,” Barahir said in return. “The waters of Dorthonion are strange, many would say. Perhaps the river will give you an answer when you least expect for it to, no?”  
  
_More than he would know_ , she thought, but did not say.  
  
“Perhaps,” she answered vaguely, staring at the shape of his smile for longer than she perhaps should have. Deep down, all of her thoughts of fey enchantments and her determination to make her own mind, to know her own heart, mingled together in a single, intertwined thread – one that she could not separate, even if she wished to.  
  
“Yes,” she inclined her head after a moment, looking out to the river once more, “I do believe it may.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Bewi** **tched**  
  
It was said, that if you walked through the pines to where the streams flowed down from the mountains, with your heart open and pure, a pool would appear to those seeking – an enchanted pool of water that was rumored to show, not your own reflection, but rather - the exact likeness of your one true love.  
  
While some said that such a tale was just make-believe – something that love-struck youths endeavored to find, and never truly did – Barahir Bregor's son swore that it was true. Beren trusted his father in all things, and, as a result, he was eager to believe in the pool's existence. Yet, his father was often telling fae tales - tales of elves and dwarves and trolls – fanciable, wonderful things that Beren listened to around the evening fire, captivated and enraptured. His mother, however, was more real on her take of the world around them, and Emeldir often dismissed his father's stories as fantasies. Dorthonion was a beautiful land – but hard and fierce, being the last fair stretch of forest before Morgoth's domain, and their highland home was a key location for the Noldor's holding the Siege of Angband. You had to be sensible and hard, Emeldir often said, elsewise the land would swallow you whole.  
  
“And yet, how better a way is there to fight the Shadow than to believe in such tales?” Barahir was unfazed by his wife's no-nonsense words, drawing her away from where she was adding potatoes to the pot of stew over the fire and into his arms. Beren looked up from where he was peeling carrots, and watched as his father spun her in a grand, courtly pattern, even though there was no music to dance to. His good cheer was so palpable that Emeldir could not help but smile too.  
  
“Besides,” Barahir leaned in to say very close to her ear, “How do you think that I knew that you were the one for me, if it was not for this enchanted pool?”  
  
Emeldir snorted. “Rather, I was the only one who could put up with your stories long enough to bear through your courtship, I think you meant to say.”  
  
At that, Barahir turned to his son and winked. “And here, after all this time, I thought that my rugged good looks won me my suit.”  
  
Emeldir tried to hold an unaffected face, but Beren saw where she tucked away a smile as she turned back to preparing their dinner, and it was that smile he chose to remember whenever he thought about his parents in the years to come.  
  
And yet, in those days, he only knew that he had a real tale of magic and fey enchantment close enough to touch. So, even when Belegund and Baragund complained that they were seeking out a magical pool for _love_ – which was not nearly as interesting as hunting for Orcs, or imagining that the sentries' fires were approaching Balrogs in the hills - Beren insisted, and eventually, he had his way. In the end, his deciding argument was that they had already searched their small radius outside of the gates of Ladros for Orcs a hundred times before. Now they were eager for a new adventure.  
  
His father was the youngest of five children, and thus, Beren had many cousins to choose from for companionship – and yet, he turned to the sons of Bregolas more often than not. The brothers were born only a year apart – with Belegund being Beren's age, and Baragund a year younger (not that it mattered, for the younger boy was taller than them both, and he never let them forget it). The brothers talked fast, and they liked to finish each-other's sentences. Like Beren, they too wanted to grant their arms in service to the house of Finarfin when they turned of age. With such qualifications binding them, they were quick friends – Beren being as much their brother as he was their cousin – and they were rarely found apart when they could instead be together.  
  
They set out from the gates of Ladros before the sun set – for they were not allowed out past dark unless accompanied by an adult. Even with the sentries guarding the lands so close to home, the risk was not worth it with the threat of Morgoth so close by. They approached the boarders of the town – looking at the broad hills that stretched to the west, all the way to the mountains beyond. To the south and east of the settlement were great forests of cedar, spruce, and hemlock trees, all rising high and mighty on the highlands. It was for this they turned, seeking out where the streams flowed in rushing trickles on their way to the great rivers in the south.  
  
They walked until it turned dark in the forests – even though the light was still golden-red in the sky beyond. Here, Beren liked to pretend that he was one of his ancestors, newly awakened in the dark lands east of the mountains. He imagined that he was one of the heroes who boldly set out to first lead his people west, seeking out the light that was said to burn far beyond the Dark One's crown . . .  
  
And yet, his imagining was interrupted when Baragund sighed and said, “We have walked this way a dozen times before, Beren. We know these trees well.”  
  
A moment passed before Belegund agreed with his brother, “It is true,” he admitted. “I see nothing more than we usually see.”  
  
Still, Beren was stubborn, “It is said,” he stated calmly, “that if our hearts are pure, then the pool will appear to us.” He glanced at his cousins. “Are your hearts pure?” he inquired teasingly.  
  
“Maybe it _is_ just a story,” Baragund suggested, ignoring his question. “Oftentimes, there is little truth to be found in such tales.”  
  
“It is _magic_ , not a story – there is a difference,” Beren countered. “You've met Lord Angrod and his folk when they meet with the elders. I . . . I find it very possible to believe that they are capable of such enchantments. Can you not _feel_ what is fey within them when they pass?”  
  
Belegund was silent as he considered that, and even Baragund looked thoughtful. There was something different about Lord Angrod – and that same sensation was almost palpable in his brother Lord Finrod, awed as Beren had been the one time he met the Elf-king. There was a light that clung to them – as if the stars had been brought close enough to touch by hands, and Beren was certain that that feeling had to be _magic_.  
  
“Well . . . maybe we can try - for a little while longer, at least,” Belegund at last said.  
  
“Just a little,” Beren agreed, glad that his friends would continue on with him. For now, he frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated how one could appear to be 'pure of heart', wanting the forest to find him and approve of his path. He considered, but he was unsure of what thought to think, of what virtue to provide as proof for something so intangible and unknown.  
  
Yet, even as he thought so, a bend appeared in the path, and they at last heard the sound of rushing water just beyond. There was a pool through the pine trees, he saw – a pool fed by a laughing waterfall, reflecting the light of the stars, even though they were not yet out for the night. Beren looked, and saw where stones were stacked by the pool's edge, each couple's inscribed name silent proof of the water's potency. He glanced, and wondered if one of the stones bore his parent's names – and yet, he would have to look for that later.  
  
Beren felt a leaping feeling his heart when he realized that here, _this_ had to be it. The forest had accepted them, even when they were uncertain of that which they searched for.  
  
“That did not feel like much of a quest,” Baragund still made a face. “That was it? At least there could have been a dragon guarding the pool. Or a troll, or _something_.”  
  
“Oh, you are just afraid to look yourself - admit it,” Belegund turned and teased his brother. “What? Are you worried that you will see Hannel's face looking back at you?”  
  
Baragund flushed, and tightened his grip about the training bow he held – betraying his answer, no matter his words. “I am a son of Bregolas,” he declared too late. “I fear nothing.”  
  
“Except for Hannel's pretty eyes, it would seem,” Belegund still laughed.  
  
Baragund scowled, and then glared over at Beren, eager to turn his brother's attention from him. “Beren should look first,” he stated. “This 'quest',” he rolled his tongue scornfully over the word, “was his idea anyway.”  
  
“I am not afraid to know,” Beren declared honestly. With his saying so, his stomach gave a curious sort of jump. No, he was not at all afraid.  
  
“If it even works, that is,” Baragund muttered, and Belegund elbowed the younger boy.  
  
“Hush,” he chastised his brother without looking. Instead, he watched Beren with curious eyes as he approached the water. Even Belegund started, intrigued, for all of his words to the contrary.  
  
Beren took a deep breath, and turned towards the pool. He walked slowly, imagining that he could feel the ancient spells that had birthed the water – seeping in from the roots of the newly growing forests, and softly glowing underneath the star's first light. _Ever_ _f_ _ull of tales_ _you are_ , his mother would tug on his ear, while his father would smile and whisper in a reverent voice of the forces that had birthed their world in the very beginning – insisting that such tales bore a magic of their own.  
  
It was with this in mind that Beren knelt down by the water, staring first at the dancing stars, and then at his own reflected face. He took in the familiar sight of his own blue eyes and curling black hair, until . . .  
  
The water shifted, slowly at first, starting with his eyes. They widened in shape, blinking before staring at him from underneath a dark curtain of lashes. The girl in the water had eyes the color of silver twilight, gleaming from aface that was as pale as the moon – unbelievably lovely from the gentle line of her jaw to the full, dark shape of her mouth. Her hair was as black as the spaces between the stars, and Beren stared – stared until he was certain that he never wanted to leave the pool for the vision it presented. How could he ever wish to leave when _she_ was there, nearly close enough to touch?  
  
And yet, he then noticed something . . . something that challenged his belief and drew his mind to question. Her ears . . . they bore fey tips, delicate and pointed, and so clearly _not human_ in shape. All of a sudden, her great beauty – the timelessness of her eyes and the mysteries her smile promised – made sense, and he felt a sinking feeling deep inside of him.  
  
The pool . . . it had to be mistaken. Such a woman was not for him, he knew with a hopeless certainty. The pool had taken him from someone else.  
  
Beren reached forward, and splashed his hand through the water, destroying the vision before him. He waited as the water rearranged itself, wanting to try again. He held his breath, hoping . . .  
  
And yet . . . there she was again, her eyes _knowing_ in the water.  
  
He tried three more times to force the pool to show him another's face, and each time she appeared, staring at him as if she knew something that he did not.  
  
Finally, Baragund peered over his shoulder to see what was troubling him. “You see,” he said, “It was nothing but a story -” and then his words faltered when he realized that the reflection in the water was not Beren's. It was someone else - _something_ else - entirely.  
  
“Is that . . .” but Belegund could not complete his sentence as he stared, awed by the beauty of the woman.  
  
“What?” Baragund came up at his brother's shocked expression. “What do you see?” he too peered over Beren's shoulder, and yet, his reaction was more immediate than Belegund's. He stepped back and laughed – a sharp snort of mirth that soon turned into full bellied peals of laughter.  
  
“Oh yes, this is a pool made for fools,” he tried to draw himself to order when his brother scowled at him. “ _Obviously_ , the enchantments are skewed, showing you only what you _wish_ to see, not what truly is.”  
  
Beren could not turn away from the woman in the water in order to disagree with his friend – for really, he admitted with a sinking feeling, Baragund was right. There was a wall between man-kind and elf-kind, and he was silly for even continuing to look at the reflection in the pool. Did the spell only show what he wanted to see? Was he that caught up in stories and fae tales that his mind could not even find a human girl to conjure and set before his eyes? The thought was a disheartening one.  
  
His spirits sank at the thought, and yet, when he raised his hand to destroy the image again, he found that he was reluctant to do so. In the water, the elf's eyes _gleamed_.  
  
“And who is not to say that an heir of Bëor is not worthy enough for a mere elf-maid, no matter how fair?” Belegund disagreed with his brother. “What if the pool does show true?”  
  
“If so,” Baragund shrugged, “then I have never seen the like of her before. I did not know of even one woman amongst Finarfin's kin dwelling so far north before this. Have you ever seen one with Lord Angrod's host?”  
  
Belegund flushed. “We may have missed a women riding out with the war-parties,” he ventured carefully. “They all wear similar armor, and their faces are . . .” he faltered. “Well, it can be hard to tell them apart at times,” he finally said gruffly.  
  
Baragund snorted. “There would be no mistaking _her_ in a group of men,” he finally admitted. “With that hair . . . is she of Fingolfin's people?” he asked. “Beren should swear fealty in Dor-Lómin when he comes of age, rather than serving Dorthonion. Perhaps he will meet her there.”  
  
“I would not leave Dorthonion unless a stone of her no longer stood,” Beren said decisively, “No matter what vision the pool showed me.” Even still, he could not look away from the water.  
  
“Besides,” Belegund still theorized. “She looks like none of the Noldor I have yet to meet, even with her black hair. She seems . . .” he faltered with his words. “She seems like something _more_. I cannot find the words within me to describe it.”  
  
It was like comparing a candle to a star, Beren thought, but he did not say so aloud – not wanting to give his companions more of a reason to tease him once they left the pool behind. “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he simply whispered, for really, there was no greater truth than that.  
  
“And that is why this pool is dangerous,” Baragund said flatly, “Never mind whether or not it is true. It fills sensible minds with nonsense – and Beren already has more nonsense in his mind than most!”  
  
At that, Beren shook his head, trying to free himself from the spell on the water. Baragund was right in that matter, and he would do himself no good by dwelling on what he had seen. At long last, he turned away, and watched as her eyes followed him from the water. Yet, after he turned, only the reflected starlight remained.  
  
“I still think that you are all words and no deeds, brother,” Belegund said with a smile as he pushed his sibling forward. “Come now, step forward, and let us see how you fair. Perhaps, if you have not vexed the spells too much, they will still show you Hannel's face.”  
  
“I really don't think -” Baragund flushed, and at that Beren laughed, trying to push the strange sight in the pool out of mind as he joined Belegund in dragging the taller boy to the water. And then there was only smiles and magic that remained.  
  
. . . and the elf-maid, waiting for him each time he blinked and closed his eyes.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Bewildered**  
  
There were days when her bones felt old within her skin.  
  
Andreth had trouble rising some mornings, and yet, sleep seemed to be the last thing her body was interested in as she passed the dark hours awake and lost in thought. Where the energy and eagerness of youth had long left her body, her mind was still as sharp as ever, and that was what kept her going day in and day out - especially on days like today, when her joints ached with the storms building on the air, and her hands refused to aid her as nimbly as they once had. She was slow as she plaited her now white hair, looking at her face in the glass and seeing where her skin was creased by both laughter and heavy cares, each line a map for the full stretch of her life thus far.  
  
Even with her advancing years, she still kept her own house – and she would do so until she could no more. She had apprentices come and go, and when they tried to do more, she refused their help. She still tidied up after herself; she cooked her own meals, and poured over her scrolls and letters as she had for the whole of her existence. Oftentimes, her role amongst the Wise simply translated to her being a rather accomplished herb-mistress and medicine-woman to her people, and so, the visitors to her house were not often those seeking to debate the various philosophies she had developed and collected over the course of her life – but rather, those asking cures for some various ailment or the other. Most amusing were those who thought that she was more of a hedge-witch than anything else, and came seeking bottled enchantments for their coin – of which she had not.  
  
Bregor, at least, knew the worth of her place amongst the Wise, and he often trusted her counsel when he made decisions for the leading of their people. Even now, her brother sat off to the side of the main room of her house, carefully pouring through the piles of scrolls that she had carefully arranged on her desk. He had just concluded a meeting with Lord Angrod the day before – and he searched for a snippet of correspondence that would solve a puzzle that they would continue to speak on that evening to come. Andreth herself had not seen much of the elves for her own tasks piling on her, and she had not yet asked Bregor for specifics.  
  
She did not turn to give him aid – not yet - for she had a specific order to fill that morning, and she crushed herbs and mixed oils with more vigor than her old joints would have preferred for the visitor she would have at noon. Bregor's grandson, Beren, would be by to pick up this package for his mother, and his visits were always a spot of brightness on her days.  
  
Knowing so, she made sure to place a glass of milk out before the fire, along with a plate of lemoncakes – which she would always tell the child she had just happened to make before he came by. And yet, one thing ever led to another, and Beren would linger until he deemed it a polite time for him to ask for stories. They had long made it through the histories of the House of Finarfin, and now Fingolfin's House featured in her tales. Last week, she had started telling him tales of Fingon the Valiant, starting with his rescue of Maedhros the One-handed from Thangorodrim, for which he had listened with wide eyes and an eager smile – imagining a kindred spirit in the Elf-prince, no doubt.  
  
Yet, when Beren entered her house, his smile was not quite as bright as it normally was. He was sincere and warm enough with his greeting, but there was a distracted quality to his words, and his eyes seemed to look beyond her more often than not. He looked bewildered by some heavy thought; both puzzled and contemplative as he absently answered her questions with distracted words. Such a thing was curious, and yet, she resolved that he would speak of what weighed upon his mind soon enough. She never had to pry much with this one.  
  
“First,” she said, passing him a glass jar of salve. “This is for your father's shoulder, and should be used the same as he has been. And this is for your mother – she will know what for. You come and tell me if that does not help the goat with her milk, and we will see about a different mix, hear me?”  
  
“Yes, Lady Andreth,” distracted as he was, Beren carefully took in her words, as always. “I thank-you.”  
  
As he always did, Beren helped her walk to her seat by the fire, and she accepted his aid rather than using her walking stick. She squeezed his arm fondly, and flashed him a warm smile. “Your visits are thanks enough, child. You are a bright spot on this old woman's days.”  
  
Beren gave a small smile at her words, pleased. And yet, when he sat down, he only held his mug of milk, and the cakes did not tempt him to eat. Normally, he would immediately eat two before restraining himself – clearly marking out when it would be polite to take a third, and then a forth when her back was turned.  
  
Andreth frowned, and when Beren's eyes turned to the fire, lost in thought, she asked, “Did you come for tales today? Or, is there something else weighing upon your mind?”  
  
He blinked slowly, as if trying to concentrate upon her words. “I am well,” he was quick to assure her. “There is nothing wrong, really. Only . . .” he faltered. He looked down at the fire, and then over to her. His brow was clearly troubled.  
  
And she waited, patient.  
  
“Two days ago,” he started slowly, “Baragund, Belegund, and I visited the enchanted pool in the woods.”  
  
Andreth smiled fondly for him saying so. “The youth still do that?” she asked, amusement touching her voice. “I would have thought that old bit of superstition to have died out long ago.”  
  
Beren nodded his head solemnly. He did not immediately smile at her words, and she felt a whisper of foreboding touch her – telling her that this was no mere trifle that was weighing upon the child. She leaned back in her chair, already carefully gathering her thoughts to her.  
  
“What did the pool show you?” she asked, and watched where Beren's cheeks flushed pink. He would not look at her.  
  
“I . . .” his voice was a whisper. It faltered at first, and then he tried again. “I know that there are whispers. The people say . . . and I understand if you do not wish to speak of it,” he darted his eyes up to her, and then quickly turned his gaze away. She felt a cold feeling fill her – understanding both what he would ask, and that what he had seen. “It's only . . . my aunts say that the reason you never married is because you loved an Elf-lord once . . . you loved him, and . . .” he faltered, clearly uncomfortable for having said anything. And yet, his need to speak was bright in his eyes. In reply, Andreth tried to swallow away her own rise of feeling, as bittersweet as it still was these many years later.  
  
She hesitated before answering, wanting to give the truth, but leery of offering him advice – or counsel – that would end up harming him in the years to come. At the desk, she became acutely aware of where Bregor turned to their conversation. She could feel the weight of his listening, even when he carefully kept his eyes on the scroll before him.  
  
Andreth pursed her mouth, and chose to answer truly, without providing detail. “I did love one of the Eldar in my youth, it is true.”  
  
Beren blinked, clearly processing the past tense in her words. She watched where his eyes dimmed, where he looked down in defeat. Curious, she pushed her own wound aside by wondering what exactly the water had shown him. There were very few elven women this far north, and the closest elven kingdoms were those of Doriath and Nargothrond to the south. She pursed her mouth, feeling as if she shaped more than her nephew's future when she asked, “Whom did the pool show to you?”  
  
He did not answer her right away. Instead, he looked down, and fiddled with his hands. But, he at last looked up at her, and met her eyes. “I saw an elf maiden,” he finally said on a soft voice, one filled with a quiet awe. “One with eyes like stars and black hair like the night . . . she was beautiful.” The last word he said slowly, as if it was not enough to express what he truly thought of the image in the pool.  
  
Just barely, Andreth let herself frown. She felt a pang when she looked at the child, sorrow for his future, the same as her own past, filling her the same as her knowing of the storms building above. Beyond them, Bregor gave up all pretense of paying attention to his work. He watched them openly, even though Beren did not notice.  
  
“It is a hard, strange road for there to be love in any shape between man-kind and elf-kind,” she at last said, for that was the simple truth of the matter, at its very core.  
  
“Then . . .” Beren held his head in dejection. “It is impossible.”  
  
“I would not say anything to be impossible, particularly where love is concerned,” even with her experience to the contrary, this Andreth still believed. “And yet . . . love between our races is a road with only one certain end, and that end may prove to be heavier than the joy to be found in its bends. Some,” and here, her voice was dry, no matter that she would have wished it not to be, “choose not to step foot on that path for its final destination, and none have yet walked it in full.”  
  
Beren nodded, listening to her words with a careful, almost painful intensity. Her hands had turned white about the arms of her chair, and she now forced them to relax. She lifted her mouth to smile, though the shape was a burden to her heart.  
  
“And yet,” she said, “I would counsel you more for the use and trusting of magic, over anything else. This pool is an enchanted pool – but enchantments are fickle and fey. Do not trust such mischiefs, and do not build your life around them. Most likely, you will grow, meet a nice girl – marry her, _love_ her, and life will continue on much as it ever has. The stories surrounding that pool are just that – stories. For now, mind your mother and listen to your father. You have many years of growing before you need even contemplate a woman in your life, and you would not want to push one away for her not being she whom you saw in the pool's spell.”  
  
Beren nodded, his gaze clearing as he contemplated the wisdom in her words. “You are right,” he at last said. “Of course. I thank-you, Aunt Andreth.”  
  
“You are not the first young one I have spoken to after looking upon that water,” Andreth said wryly. “I doubt that you will be the last.”  
  
At that, Beren smiled – a true smile. “And you?” he asked. “What did the pool show you?”  
  
“You know? It is so long ago that I do not remember.” This alone she chose to keep to herself. She could still remember the reflection given to her whenever she but closed her eyes. It was a remembrance she treasured . . . and yet, Beren did not need to hear that. Not then. “You see? Enchantments; fickle and fey.”  
  
“Fickle and fey,” Beren repeated after her, relief clear in his voice. Whatever guilt she felt for her falsehood, she pushed away for hearing him speak so. There was a weight hanging about the child before her, she could not help but feel . . . a great burden that needed only the brush of a breeze to topple one way or the other. She resolved to watch him carefully in the years to come, lest that touch of destiny become as as a shackle in deep water to him, pulling him down rather than lifting him up.  
  
And yet, for now Beren was a child, and he at last turned to the pastries with joy in his eyes. She pushed her own thoughts of lost loves and hesitant futures away, and said, “Now, where did we leave off with our stories last week?”  
  
“Fingon the Valiant was driving the dragon Glaurung back to Angband during the Dagor Aglareb,” he informed her happily, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers as he finished one cake and then reached for another.  
  
Andreth sat back, and let herself smile. “Ah yes, Glaurung. He was the Father of the Dragons, and young in power and might. For him, this adventure was but a taste of wickedness as he learned to wield his strength . . .”  
  
And so, she lost herself in stories. Beren listened, enraptured, until it was at last time for him to return home. She saw him off, heartened to see that his step was light where earlier it had been heavy. She had helped lift a weight from his shoulders, for which she was glad. And yet, as soon as he turned down the road, she felt her own memories come back to settle on her like a shroud. She frowned as she closed the door behind her, weary in a way that had nothing to do with her years.  
  
Bregor too stood when his grandson was gone, and he looked as if he bore a weight to match. She approached the desk, seeing the words that gathered in his eyes.  
  
“You set the child up for pain,” he said after a long moment. She looked, seeing where his beard was now completely white – for youth had left him behind, the same as she. Upon his brow, his circlet looked heavier than it had in years past.  
  
“And yet,” she countered, “he is still just that. A child.”  
  
“But old enough to know better,” Bregor disagreed. “My son fills his head with stories and nonsense, and, someday -”  
  
“ - they are stories you used to believe, as well,” Andreth gave a short laugh. “After all,” her eyes glittered, “who was it who first found that pool – and your _wife_ \- within its depths? There are times when I see much of _you_ in Beren, just as so much of you resides in Barahir.”  
  
Bregor sighed at that. And yet, he had no words to say in his defense. “Easier is it to believe in stories than to bear what we must at times,” he finally said. His eyes were troubled as he took his seat once more, rubbing at his temples with his hands. “I have such whispers of foreboding as of late that they seem fit to smother me.”  
  
“That sounds very fey of you, brother,” she too took a seat next to Bregor, but while her words teased, there was a concern of her own to match in her eyes. She frowned, knowing that Angrod's visit was not just a friend's looking in on Ladros. He had troubles to share - visions too - she would guess.  
  
“Lord Angrod came with warnings, then?” she asked in a frank voice.  
  
Bregor looked up. “Only premonitions on his end; feelings of dread from the north. The trees whisper with warning, the water all but pulses with it, he says. Morgoth stirs, and he stirs in rage. We knew that the Siege would not indefinitely hold, and yet, we were not sure if it would break in our lifetime. But now . . . it seems more of a matter of _when_ rather than _if_.”  
  
“We have been blessed with our years of watchful peace,” Andreth muttered. “Now, we can only do what we can to ensure that our children and our children's children know of that same peace in their years to come.” She felt a pang then, thinking of her life thus far . . . with so many years while _nothing_ stirred from the north, years in which she could have – in which _they_ could have . . .  
  
But such a thought was to inflict a pain with no cure, and she was tired of bleeding from this wound. She breathed in deep with her hurt, with her love, and let it go once more.  
  
And Bregor watched her. As always, he knew her as well as she thought to know herself. “The same as the last time he was here, Lord Angrod did not mention his brother.”  
  
Andreth set her mouth in a thin line, fighting to keep a wave of feeling down. “He has not in almost fifty years,” she shrugged. “And he will ever not. His cares are many, and their dealings are great beyond us.”  
  
“Still,” Bregor said with a flash of something hot in his words. “It does not excuse . . .” but he bit off his angry speech, and instead sighed – weary with an old hurt.  
  
Once, he had been a young man enamored with both of Finrod's brothers, much as they all were. Yet, even that awe had not stopped him from doing Aegnor a physical harm when he viewed his sister to be ill used and dishonorably treated. Aegnor bore a black eye from that encounter, and had finally been moved to fight back against the human when Angrod finally arrived to break them up. There had been no impropriety between them, she had to speak quickly to sooth her brother's anger – leaving out that there were times when she would not have minded more than the painfully chaste embraces they had enjoyed so far. She had been puzzled when tending to Aegnor's eye later, whispering that if he would only ask Bregor for her hand, then all of the questions and doubt would cease, and they could then start their life together.  
  
But something in her words had given him pause, and Aegnor drew away from her . . . so far away. Rather than claiming what few years they could together, she was instead deprived of even seeing him as a friend and comrade when Angrod took over the duties regarding Ladros in the north, and almost fifty years had passed since last she had seen him.  
  
Andreth sighed, refusing to dwell too long on a subject that was still more bitter than sweet. Finrod had since tried to explain why Aegnor had not taken even a few years in love with her, in his gentle and earnest way. And yet, even still . . . her denied love was a pain where she had once known only joy, and she tried not to think of it when she could.  
  
“I am sorry,” was all that Bregor would say in the end – it was all that he _could_ say, when all other words would amount to not. Sadly, she smiled at him – warmly and truly, even when her eyes burned with the tears she had not cried in years.  
  
“Do not be,” she asked of him, wiping at her eyes as she turned back to her herbs and oils. Her hands were unsteady as she placed more vials in a basket – for there were more than Beren's parents who had need of her skills that day. She could not yet look back to her brother.  
  
“For a short while, I knew what it was like to hold the sun,” she said on a small voice. “Even those few months were worth any years spent longing. I . . . that was why I could not tell the child of impossible things. For I would take those few days loving truly over all of the years I could have spent in a marriage of lesser meaning to my heart. This is a truth that I have to believe as absolute.”  
  
Bregor stood, and yet, she held a hand up. “I am well. Truly I am,” she assured him. “I have been for many years, now. It was only Beren's words that brought back my memories. They do not haunt my every day.” . . . in full, at least, but that she would not say.  
  
“Now,” she tilted up her head, and held up her basket for him to see. “Widow Toben has need of remedies for her arthritis, and she can no longer come to me. When I get back, you will tell me of whatever matter has you pouring through my scrolls, and we will solve it together.”  
  
Bregor inclined his head, and while his eyes did not quite believe her to be as well as she said she was, he still honored her request. He let her go.  
  
And Andreth stepped outside with a firm stride, grounding herself on the here and now, rather than that which time had left behind. She would not burden herself with the memory of impossible things – not when that same memory had once brought her so much joy.  
  
She thought of Beren as she stepped on to the path, and wondered for his maid with her eyes of stars. She stopped underneath the grey skies, heavy with rain, and bowed her head - silently praying to whomever of the Valar would hear, asking that this woman would not yield to impossibilities as she had.  
  
And then, she picked up her head, and continued on.


	57. "as the fire grows"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil/Canonical Wife & Celeborn || Prompt: _Warmth_ , Free-write
> 
> This vignette is set right before the War of the Last Alliance in the Second Age, and follows up the plot arch started in Chapter 50. That said, it contains a lot of little things from my various Sindarin stories - so there are bits and pieces of head-canon sprinkled throughout this that you can take as you may. That said, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy. :)

Desolation stretched across the Berennyn as far as the eye could see.  
  
During the day, the massive stretch of brown land east of the Anduin was nothing but withered grass, stretched thin over the gently rolling hills. The vast nothingness was a scar upon the earth where once green trees and bountiful fields had thrived. At night, the wound inflicted upon the land was less noticeable, with the hundreds of thousands of men encamped over the plains visible without the shelter of tree or stone. Their campfires were like fireflies in the dark; a veritable sea of war, with chainmail and steel glittering like the crests of waves in the moonlight.  
  
It was, even Thranduil could admit, a rather impressive sight. He had not seen such a collection of Elves and Men bound together since the final days of Morgoth's reign, and the _feel_ of so many souls in one place rippled over his senses as he stared into his own fire, feeling its heat but finding little warmth against the chill of the night.  
  
Once, this land was a land of many trees, he let his spirit reflect with an ache. Once, the Onodrim had cultivated the earth with a tender hand, coaxing the fruit trees to blossom and reaping great yields from the planted field. And yet, the Shepards of Yavanna had been chased from their places, and now nothing remained but for dust and ruin. It was, Thranduil thought, a pointed reminder of all they risked with their last push at Sauron's doors. For if they failed in the fight to come, not only would the gardens of the Entwives bear such a scar. _Every_ forest of Ennor would burn as the Brown Lands had burned, and -  
  
Thranduil frowned for the shape of his thoughts, finding them troubling in the face of the trials that awaited them. Once more, he reached out with his senses and tried to find even the slightest trace of roots underneath the dead ground. He looked deep, hoping to find even the smallest of survivors from Sauron's scourge, for even the barest fiber of life could birth a great forest in the centuries to come, and if the _slightest_ hope now remained . . .  
  
But all he sensed was decay and ash. The pulse of the ground was dry and bitter against his senses; discordant and pained. He pulled himself away from his search, acknowledging it as futile. Even so, his skin itched, and he distantly wished for the shade of leafy boughs and the ancient song of the forest. It was unnatural, this empty land, and he would be glad when they finished crossing it – even if was the gates of Mordor that awaited their journey's end. Already the hills turned steep around the curves of the Anduin, and the sharp crags of the Emyn Muil stood to greet them at the south of their encampment – warning of where they would soon have to turn their host straight into Sauron's waiting arms, where their warring would begin in full.  
  
Pulling his thoughts away from the far off trees, Thranduil wondered how many campfires would be lit on their return trip home. He wondered if he himself would even be sitting this same place, when -  
  
“Ah, I was right to assume that you would keep a finer vintage for yourself,” at the voice – once familiar to him when they were both young men, living through the rise and fall of Doriath's might – Thranduil looked up. He raised a dark brow when Celeborn sat down next to him without waiting for an invitation, already reaching for the wine-skin in order to pour himself a glass.  
  
The silver-haired elf gave a pleased smile when he took a sip of the red, inclining his head in approval. “What the Dúnedain call _wine_ is more like vinegar and water,” he commented. “You would have been appalled.”  
  
“Such low taste I can believe of the Men,” Thranduil said dryly in reply. “But of Gil-galad's camp? That I do find to be a depressing thought.” He tilted his head. “Unless you have simply tired of the Noldo's company?”  
  
“The same as you have tired of Oropher's?” Celeborn asked, perfectly innocent in his tone. He glanced significantly at Thranduil and his solitary seating – where, just across the rows of tents, Oropher sat with his commanders and talked of the battles to come - away from his son's ears.  
  
Thranduil fought to keep his face serene and still. He had lived apart from his sire for the better part of the last Age, and a _day_ spent in his company had been all Thranduil needed to look forward to another separation between them. It had been difficult enough to endure his father when his mother was alive to act as a buffer between them, and since her death it had become all but impossible. Once, after a particularly violent row, she had crossly informed him that it was their similarities, rather than their differences, that led to their clashing tempers – only, his was a cold fire where Oropher was an inferno of a presence – and yet, he tried not to examine that thought too closely whenever he could.  
  
“I have dwelt quite comfortably with three forests between us for the majority of this Age,” Thranduil finally answered, his mouth a thin line. “I do believe that he has forgotten that I have spent that time leading – and leading well, may I add. Any words I may offer contrary to his own decided course are met less than graciously in reply.”  
  
A whisper of foreboding rose within him at the thought. While he cared but little for Oropher refusing to hear his own counsel, it was worrisome when he plotted the movements of his troops away from that which Gil-galad had planned - and thought Oropher to understand, as well. While Thranduil did not believe the Noldor to be all-wise and all-knowing – as many viewed them, including the Noldor themselves – his years living in Lindon had taught him to respect Gil-galad and his crown, at the very least. Thranduil had his pride – too much of it, perhaps - and yet, he was wise enough to open his ears and listen to their thoughts and ideas, even if he did not use their wisdoms absolutely when making decisions for his own people. Oropher, however, had dwelt too long in his forests, away and afar from any other people. There he had nursed his wounds and his prejudices like seeds in the dark, letting them break the ground and sprout as sapling trees. Now . . .  
  
Thranduil took another long draw of wine, and swallowed that thought away as well.  
  
While his thoughts chased themselves in circles, Celeborn stared into the fire, a look of consideration worn on his own face. For a moment, Thranduil imagined his father's annoyance if he was seen speaking to his friend of old – for Oropher's opinion of his younger kinsman had cooled greatly when Celeborn even _looked_ on Artanis Arafinwiel with admiration in his eyes, prophesying that the Noldor would only bring a fire to the forests to match the Sun that dawned to light their way. When Oropher's foresight proved to be for true, and Artanis was then _Galadriel_ \- bound to the trees by both marriage and heart - Oropher acknowledged Celeborn as no kin of his, and expected his son to do the same.  
  
. . . of course, that was not to say that Celeborn's wife did not unsettle him as well. Galadriel had a way, not of looking _at_ a person, but rather _through_ a person . . . through to both marrow and bone. He had never cared for the transparency he felt in her presence, like a scab picked open and raw. And yet, for all of their differences, he could admit that the couple suited each other – with Celeborn's ease checking her ambition, and his strength a quiet might where her will was more akin to a force of nature. Yet, Celeborn had once remarked wryly: Galadriel was more Teleri than Noldor due to the shape of her blood – and all too easily did Oropher and those like minded choose to forget that truth when it was not convenient to them. It was easier to think of her as Olwë's granddaughter, rather than Finwë's – and thus, kin to Thingol and kin to him. It made things simpler . . . most of the time.  
  
Celeborn sighed, and picked up the wine-skin to pour himself another glass. “It is ever a fine line for a father,” he acknowledged, his thoughts still on Oropher, “to play the role of mentor and guide while still acknowledging that a child has finally grown to stand on their own roots.”  
  
“If it were only that,” Thranduil said wryly, taking another sip of wine. “And yet,” he gave the barest of smiles, caring but little to speak of his sire any more than he had to, “That is a problem you have little encountered yourself, or so I have observed. Your daughter has been an unexpected source of light in Lindon these past few centuries.”  
  
He need not have said anything more for the conversation to shift. On cue, Celeborn's expression softened, and a father's fondness for a favored child shone bright in his eyes. Unexpectedly, a sour feeling rose in his throat, green in shape – and he fought it away, annoyed for its presence.  
  
After their first war against Sauron in Eregion, Celeborn had moved his family west to Lindon – for little at ease would Galadriel feel in the forests, away from any further developments against Sauron, and in Lindon they planned to stay until the Dark Maia's defeat. Celeborn's daughter, however, had been far from awed and overwhelmed by the grace and beauty of the High-king's seat of power. Instead, she had been a quiet and reserved thing as she ever turned her gaze to the east – where it was rumored that she had left her heart behind in the newly founded Imladris. Yet, Celebrían was fresh blood to the Noldor court – an unexpected gift of beauty and breeding to the ancient circles of courtiers, and Thranduil had enjoyed watching the subtle way she conducted herself around the silver-tongued vultures and her numerous would-be suitors. If he was honest with himself, he could admit that he had long enjoyed the unexpected companion he had found in her. For - frankly put - she was safe company to keep, never looking for more from him, or examining every phrase and gesture for a hidden meaning. She was as stone when his temper could be as a wave, and her own wit was dry and cutting whenever he pushed her to it . . . which, he could admit to doing more often than not.  
  
He looked, and saw where Celeborn's thoughts were much the same as his own. His face softened in the firelight, and his smile was small and fond. “There is a radiance about her that is softer than Galadriel's, but no less potent,” Celeborn agreed with him. “She brightens everything she touches . . . and yet, she has ever done so for me.”  
  
For a moment, Celeborn's look dipped, and Thranduil wondered if he – like so many soldiers that eve – doubted of his surviving to return home to the family he had waiting for him. The thought demanded more wine, and so, Thranduil filled each of their glasses.  
  
“And, speaking of,” Thranduil said, turning his thoughts from places he would rather them not dwell, “You are far from your would-be goodson this eve. My wine is good, but something tells me that Gil-galad drinks the same, if not better.”  
  
Celeborn cracked the barest of smiles. “I am afraid that Elendil and his family have snared his attention this night. It is rare indeed for Men to find one who knew your first forefather – your first King – intimately, and has childhood anecdotes to share, at that. Ciryon, in particular, has questions aplenty, and Elrond answers them all.” Ciryon, unlike his two elder brothers, had been born in Ennor, rather than in fallen Númenor beyond. Besides toddling Valandil, left behind in his mother's arms, he was the youngest of Isildur's brood. The boy still bore the stars of youth in his eyes, and only time would tell if war would chase that gleam away.  
  
At that, Thranduil shook his head, knowing that the Peredhel would be in his glory with sharing such stories, little that he would admit to it it. During the centuries before Imladris' construction. Thranduil had come to respect the healer – he grudgingly even _liked_ him, no matter how painfully Noldor he could be at times . . . Not that he would ever tell the other man that, of course. His unflappable patience and immovable composure were already infuriating. He did not need to add in the smug satisfaction of him being _right_.  
  
Thranduil tapped the fingers of his opposite hand absently against the cup of the goblet. “You are happy with her choice, then?” he asked, curious.  
  
Celeborn looked thoughtful in reply. “I am not unhappy with her choice,” he answered carefully. “As a father, a part of me would wish an easier road than the one she has set herself upon. And yet, I should not be surprised . . . after all, it is in her blood.”  
  
“She has already showed patience – even for our kind,” Thranduil commented. “She is steadfast.”  
  
Celeborn gave him a considering look over the top of his glass – one that caused a whisper of warning to prickle up and down his spine. “She was young when her attachment was first made . . . not too young, but young enough. The past centuries have shaped her character and her wisdoms for the better – preparing her for the position of leadership she will assume with this match. Now she will be a strength and compliment to her mate, rather than a sapling still in need of growth.” Sure enough, the shape of his eyes was most certainly probing.  
  
Thranduil fought the rather adolescent urge he had to bite his lip, refusing to be made uncomfortable by the other's stare. “Even still,” he said slowly, “a thousand years is a long time. Even for an elf.” Almost two thousand, in Celebrían's case. In his . . .  
  
He pushed that number aside, caring little for its shape.  
  
“It is long enough,” Celeborn rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “And yet, if the years waiting proved to be too much for her – or him – then neither would be worthy of the match they sought.”  
  
“And now?” Thranduil asked, his words slow.  
  
“Elrond has not expressly asked me for her hand, for which I am grateful.” Celeborn tilted his head, for a moment speaking not in double meanings. “If he would have asked me before the war, I would have denied him, for the fates of all are uncertain, and I would not see her bound just in time to watch her fade away for the sake of that bond. Yet, even so, her soul is linked to his, and even without a true marriage, I fear that she would follow him should he fall.”  
  
Thranduil managed a thin smile, but it was strained. “You shall just have to ensure that the Peredhel remains alive throughout the melee. A simple enough task.”  
  
“I have explicit instructions to bring him – and myself – back alive, it is true,” Celeborn agreed wryly. “And not so easily is the will of Galadriel turned aside.” His eyes glittered. “And you? What do you plan to do when the war is over? Shall you return to Lindon? Our people have merged almost completely with the Falathrim, and Círdan is a good lord - a great lord, even. Oropher would do well to have your cool head beneath the boughs of the Greenwood – your people would certainly benefit, at the very least.”  
  
The centuries had turned Celeborn - Thranduil thought, but did not say - just as meddling as his wife, but twice as unsubtle.  
  
“You are not the only one to think so,” Thranduil answered after a long moment. He shifted in his seat, suddenly restless as he recalled his father's thinly veiled hints about him returning to the Greenwood once Mordor was laid low.  
  
“The trees will always call you home,” Celeborn gave him an appraising look. “Either you will follow behind Oropher now, or you will do so later. Either way, your road remains the same . . . Unless the Sea tugs at your soul? Is there another reason for your refusal to leave Lindon?”  
  
“No,” Thranduil said decisively. “I have yet to feel Valinor's call, even after listening to the song of the waves for so many years. Truthfully, I cannot imagine it ever calling me to stray from this land.” . . . not when he could _feel_ the roots of Ennor as if the trees first planted themselves in his very soul. No. He could not ever imagine taking one of the Grey Ships into the West.  
  
Around him, the dead land stretched for miles on end, and he felt that now familiar weight settle upon his spirit when he could not feel _one_ surviving root, not even deep beneath the ground. The land was nothing, a barren stretch of dessert grass, and his soul ached for the loss. He closed his mouth, and wished for the shade of the trees once more. He knew that - in that way, at least - his father was right. He had dwelt too long away from the forest, and the wound he had inflicted upon his spirit was nearly a physical pain as a result.  
  
Celeborn watched him as his thoughts swirled. He put his wine down before leaning forward to look at him openly, no double meanings and clever words upon his mouth, just a friend's frank concern when he asked: “Could it be that you then know fear?”  
  
Instantly, he felt his ire spark. “I know not of which you speak,” he uttered defensively – even when knowing that the sharp tone of his voice would only fix Celeborn's opinions as facts in his mind. He fought to keep his face expressionless, but he could feel his mask stretch.  
  
“I am sure you do not know of whom I refer to. So, allow me to remind you – it has been a long time, after all,” Celeborn arched a brow. His voice was overly pleasant. “Captain of your father's archers . . . a pretty thing with blonde hair and blue eyes . . . and a rather remarkable aim, at that.”  
  
“Her eyes are more green than blue,” Thranduil corrected him – speaking too quickly, once again. Celeborn's smile was insufferable in reply.  
  
“Forgive me for not looking more closely,” Celeborn said wryly. “I shall take your word for it.”  
  
Thranduil fought the urge he had to sigh – defeated. Instead, he took another long swallow of wine. And then another. The red was strong and spicy as it warmed its way down his throat to settle in his stomach, and a moment later he felt as if he could speak.  
  
When Amdír's forces from Lórinand and Oropher's men from the Greenwood joined their host on the banks of the Anduin – some weeks ago, now – he would be lying if he said that _she_ had not immediately captured his gaze and held it. Due to their differing places on the march, he had spoken to her but little – only passing glances and words in which there was little time for anything more. Even so, he knew each look like a brand and each word like _gold_ for how he coveted them as if holding them between a dragon's claws.  
  
When his father had first spoken to him of returning home from Lindon, Oropher had mentioned marriage as a reason for his doing so – for thousands of years had passed, and he had yet to take a bride. His better sense had told him not to inform Oropher of his long-standing promise to Calelassel Laeorniel, but he had foolishly done so anyway – and Oropher's scorn had been thick and immediate in reply. The girl's favoring of her Sindar blood over her Noldor blood – and her bond with the trees, at that – made Oropher blind to her _faults_ when she was nothing more than a member of his guard, but to be worthy of his son's hand . . .  
  
Oropher had only been all too glad to point out the elf with chestnut coloured hair who constantly walked in Calelassel's shadow. Though Torion Cevenion was her second in command, Oropher believed him to be more than that - and he had been filled with scorn as he berated his son for placing his heart where it was not worthy. If Oropher only bore qualms for Calelassel's blood, his objections would only deepen his resolve – as terrible as it was to think such a thought. And yet . . . if she had moved on in the _thousands_ of years he had forced her to wait . . . if she had found another . . .  
  
. . . who did he have to blame but himself?  
  
After speaking to Oropher, he had watched Calelassel closely . . . and he found that his father's words were true. She was ever seen with this elf – this _Torion_ – whenever he looked, and the shape of his emotions had been dark and hot in reply.  
  
He had scarcely spoken two words to his father since their argument, and now he was drinking wine alone in the barren-lands when they stood so close to the gates of Mordor – where survival was not guaranteed for any, and dubious for all. If asked, Thranduil would be hard pressed to imagine a more pathetic picture.  
  
“It matters not,” Thranduil said, realizing his long lapse into silence. “I have made her wait too long, and she has moved on . . . she has found another. She was young at the end of the war – young enough to misinterpret what she thought she felt for me, it would seem. It is just as well that there was no vow between us – only the vaguest of promises. She is free to make her own choices, and I will let her.”  
  
Celeborn blinked. “Did she tell you of this new suitor in her life?” he asked, his words careful. “Have you spoken to her of this?”  
  
Thranduil was silent in reply. He took another long draw of wine. “I have seen enough,” was his short answer in reply.  
  
Celeborn's sigh was audible, even over the crackling of the fire. “You do the lady a disservice with such assumptions,” he said. “Even if your observations are right, you should still speak to her – for one outcome or another. You dishonor both her and yourself by merely assuming.”  
  
And yet . . .  
  
Thranduil swallowed, and found that his throat was dry. There was an uneasy rolling in the deep parts of him, and it took him a long moment to deign that emotion as _fear_.  
  
“All know fear for this step,” Celeborn answered the unspoken. “And yet, for this one stride there is often the sweetest of rewards waiting. You have been alone for much too long, my friend . . . much too long.”  
  
Thranduil set his mouth into a thin line. He looked over the sea of campfires once again, and felt the souls surrounding him flicker brightly in the night. In the end, all of his worries and wondering could be for not, a black voice inside of him whispered. With the fight to come . . .  
  
“And, with a battle like this one awaiting us . . .” Celeborn continued, unconsciously following his thoughts. “In the end, such warring will only lead you to treasure what you have all the more dearly. This Maia . . .” here his voice lost it's teasing lilt, it's well meaning friendliness. A shadow fell over his expression - a dark that was more than the midnight hour and the flickering shapes from the fire's light. “This Maia and his Ring . . . when we battled in Eregion, it was as if his spirit was everywhere all at once. It looked _within_ you . . . _through_ you . . . illuminating all that was shadowed and marred about yourself. It was not only a battle of arms we fought, but a battle against _ourselves_ , and some minds could not stand up tall underneath the onslaught.”  
  
Thranduil let his next breath out slowly. He moved in closer to the fire, but the warmth it gave was quickly swept away by the wind blowing in cold and dark from the east.  
  
“I would rather fight Morgoth's unnatural host ten times over than battle this one stray spirit,” Celeborn said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And yet, it is only this _one_ war remaining between shadow and another time of peace.”  
  
“As watchful as that peace may be,” Thranduil muttered - for ever did that which was marred about the world rise again and again, no matter how many foul beings they slayed. Forever it was to his race to ride the crest of those waves, to rise and fall and _endure_ alongside the marred world they were bound to.  
  
. . . at times, the thought was a wearying one. And yet, all those living in Arda bore their own burden . . . this was simply the price of _forever_ and deathlessness.  
  
In that moment, his skin felt thin over his bones. The wine had moved from warming his stomach, to turning it, and a restless energy crawled over his limbs in reply. He stood, his movements graceful as the half-light danced over the charcoal grey plates of his armor.  
  
“Enjoy the wine,” he inclined his head to Celeborn. “The night has turned restless for me, and I have no wish to sit still.”  
  
Celeborn nodded his head in reply. “Don't mind if I do,” he gave a smile that was stretched about the edges – the other man no doubt fighting the same doubts and premonitions as he did. While neither of them had full use of the Sight, they were both kin of Thingol, and the future ever danced over their mind's eye, ever out of reach. At times, the barest of premonitions was a burden, rather than a gift. “Until later, my friend,” still, Celeborn found it within himself to smile. Thranduil tried to share that look, but knew that his expression was forced.  
  
“Until later,” Thranduil replied, and turned away from the fire.  
  
Upon stepping away from the circle of orange light, it only took his eyes a moment to adjust to seeing by the starlight. Once, the stars had been the only light he had needed – the only light he had wanted – and he now felt a feeling of _home_ and _ease_ underneath their distant light. He picked through the camps with a silent step, hearing snippets of conversation as he passed - everything from hushed voices, speaking in whispers, to the bright laughter and jests of comrades. In one dark tent, he could hear a prayer to the Valar being spoken in an undertone . . . over and over again, as if the uttered mantra would spare that soldier's life in the days to come. Thranduil listened for a moment, and then continued on.  
  
He soon found his feet taking him away from the camps, down to where the mighty Anduin flowed to the west of their camp. Her waters were quick and timeless, immortal in a way that even he could not comprehend. He let the natural melody of the water lull his thoughts, listening to her sing of her years until her voice drowned out the chatter from beyond.  
  
Here, the rapids crashed against the cradle of the river, dancing in shallow and quick patterns over the great stones of the riverbed. Those same stones continued up on the shore in massive shapes, and atop the grey stone, brown grass stubbornly started to grow in thin patches before sweeping over the dead plains to the east. Even by the life-giving river, he could not feel the tell-tale thrum of life trying to begin anew, far beneath the the surface of the earth. Sauron's fires had been unnatural and unholy, and not even the water could sooth that burn on the land.  
  
Distantly, as if summoning up memories through a great fog, he remembered being a youth in Doriath. There had been delight – for him and many others - when the Onodrim learned to speak during their long wanderings from the green ways of the River-lands. But that land too was no more, and Fangorn and his folk were now deep within their forest, unheard of for centuries as they mourned their lost ones. Theirs' was a loss they would place at Mordor's feet – one more atop many others - and for the first time, Thranduil felt a fierce pang of anticipation for the battle to come.  
  
With a sigh, he knelt down to touch a hand to the river. The water was cold here, even so far to the south - as if the river herself was tensing before running parallel to the Mountains of Shadow, knowing of the pains she would suffer so close to the dark lands. Cold as it was, he let the natural dance of the water sooth him, numbing his thoughts and lulling his spirit until -  
  
He felt the cold sensation of an arrowhead touching the exposed skin of his neck. Instinctively, he tilted his chin up, shying away from the touch of the steel, even as every muscle in his body braced, ready to -  
  
“Ill it is to walk unguarded – and so unaware – in the shadows this close to Mordor.”  
  
He knew that voice as well as he knew his own, even if centuries had passed since last he had heard her speak in full. He drew in a thin breath, mindful of the cool tip of the arrowhead against his skin. “As always, my blood is yours to do with as you would.”  
  
The very tip of the arrow drew a light path underneath his chin, tracing out where the line of healthy and scarred flesh would have been had he not worn his enchantments strong and unmovable upon his skin. He wondered if she remembered, or if such a thing was by chance.  
  
“It is a great gift you give me,” she replied, her voice playful. “Yet, it is one I shall not claim this night.”  
  
She drew the arrow away, and he drew in a deeper breath. Still, it shook in his lungs.  
  
His back was to her when he stood. He was slow about drying his hands on the heavy fabric of his cloak, and he hesitated before turning – slowly, so as to draw the moment out for as long as he could. She was beautiful in the starlight, and he could not help but imagine how she would have looked underneath the light of the infant stars - long before their brilliance was marred by the Sun and Moon. Her hair was more silver than blonde underneath the veil of night, and her fair skin was luminous beneath the cold glow from the heavens. He traced each familiar feature with his eyes, taking his memory of her and rewriting it anew. Time had touched her not but for her eyes, he saw. Her gaze was brighter, matching the strong pulse of her spirit - eternal and glowing . . . and all the more enticing for the years it had to grow into its full flame.  
  
He exhaled, and found that he could not find his next breath.  
  
“I thought you to be with the watches this eve,” he remarked, raising a brow. The starlight flickered over the planes of her armor as she took a step closer to him. Someday, Vairë's weaving would bring them together without steel standing between them, he let himself hope. And yet . . . that itself was another _could have been_ , he forced his thoughts to sober. He took an unconscious step back from her.  
  
“I am with the watches this night,” Calelassel confirmed, tilting her head to the side. “That is how I came across you.”  
  
“Alone?” he asked. He meant his question to be casual; harmless, even. It came out lined, as with teeth.  
  
She raised a thin brow, weighing his words. A moment later, she pursed her mouth. “For now,” she answered. “There was a sound in the dark, and Torion went one way while I went another.”  
  
Like a candle blowing out, the warmth he felt in her presence gave way for a chill. “I shall pass on word of your thoroughness to my father, then,” he said, meaning to move past her. He inclined his head in a cold gesture. “Good night, Captain.”  
  
She caught him as he passed her. Her fingers were strong about the vambrace covering his forearm, so strong that he would have to use force to free himself from her.  
  
“Wait,” she would not let him go. He stilled, giving into that one word as if she uttered a command. “Have I done something to displease you?” she asked, and while her question was one of confusion, her voice bore a note of frustration – annoyance, even.  
  
He felt his own ire rise at the question. He did not answer her right away, unsure of what to say without his words coming out petulant and wounded. He was not a child, and he was not a dog - he would not beg for her, he _would not_. If she had made her decision, he would abide by it gracefully. Only, not _now_. He could not . . . not yet.  
  
“You are displeased,” Calelassel pressed. “Angry, even.” Her grasp tightened about his wrist.  
  
“I am not,” he denied. His voice came out as a wave of frost. He still would not look at her.  
  
“You lie,” she said simply. Though centuries had passed – over _three_ _millennia_ – mere moments spent again in her presence had unearthed the sparks of their old bond, allowing him to _feel_ her anger as much as he could hear and see it. He inhaled against the sensation, trying to keep his own anger down, fey and elemental as it was rising within him.  
  
“My lady,” he whispered, half afraid of what she would hear if he spoke any louder. “I wish to take my leave of you.”  
  
“So formally you speak to me.” Even still, she refused to release him. “You had a right to my name long ago, _my lord_ , or are those days too far gone for you?” Though her tone was without anger, he could feel a lance of bitter feeling strike him with their speaking.  
  
“I do not think that your _intended_ would approve of my doing so,” he returned, and tugged his wrist free of her. From the glance he stole, he could see no shadow of a mate resting in her eyes. Instead, he swallowed when he caught the bright flare of green the star-light revealed. “Nor would he approve of you speaking to another alone in the dark, and neither do I -”  
  
“ - of what madness do you speak?” she interrupted him. Her brow furrowed, her annoyance then greater than her confusion. Though, why she still played at confusion, he knew not. He felt a wave of indignation spark within him, wondering if she truly meant to toy with him. He had never thought her to be that kind of woman, and yet, many, _many_ years had passed, and . . .  
  
“Do not take me for a fool,” he returned coldly. “You know of whom I speak.” His words were low, but the emotion behind them was unmistakable. He could not control his thoughts in that moment, and he watched as she picked out one clear image from the maelstrom of sensations and emotions she felt from him.  
  
“Torion?” she stammered the name out stupidly. “ _Torion?_ ” she had to ask a second time. The last syllable of his name came out as a disbelieving sound. Thranduil _hated_ hearing it from her mouth.  
  
“My father told me of -” he started, but was not allowed to complete his words.  
  
“ - of all the times for you to listen to your sire's words, _t_ _his_ is what you take as truth?” Calelassel gave a disdainful snort. She took a step back from him, and ran a hand though her hair in frustration. “Manwë's teeth, Thranduil, but -”  
  
“Are they true?” he asked, standing up tall before her obvious anger. He could feel her emotions swell against his spirit like the ocean rising in a storm, and the knowledge that someone else had the privilege to know her so, the _right_ to. . . He took a step back from her, needing to keep a distance between them. For his fëa was angry and white against his skin, and he was having a hard time forcing his spirit down where it belonged. They were civilized creatures, and he was a prince amongst his kind. He would be no mindless faerie – not even about this – and where his fëa howled and hissed, insisting that he could still _feel_ her, that they still matched like the moon to the tides, he ignored his baser instincts and coolly held his ground. He was doing well to simply meet her eyes, furious as they were in that moment.  
  
“You would truly stand there, acting as if you are the one with a right to any wound?!” she exclaimed instead of answering him outright. “I left you in Lindon thinking that a century would pass – a thousand years, even - before you would make your way over the mountains and let your feet return home to the forests. And yet, how many centuries has it been? How many _thousands_ of years?”  
  
He held her gaze without giving anything away in his expression. But she did not truly expect an answer.  
  
“And why?” finally her voice softened. It turned hurt in shape. “Is it because you cannot make peace with your father? Your wounds with Oropher run two ways, Thranduil, and you deceive yourself if you think they do not. Do . . . do you not know that there are those of us who would do _anything_ for a second chance with our loved ones?” She paused, and drew in a breath, and for a moment he felt her pain – older, and dull in comparison to what she felt for him in that moment. “Instead, you hesitate to make amends out of pride and fear. And to compound that mistake, you would let others bear a hurt for that fear? It is not right.”  
  
“I was needed in my place,” he turned her argument aside, his words sparking with a cold fire. “It was not to me to leave those beneath my care without one to follow.”  
  
“And you were the only one who could manage this task?” still she pressed. “You hide behind your duty like a _shield_ , and use it to ward off emotions as if they were blows.”  
  
“And you hide from the heart of the matter by deflecting the blame on to others,” he returned. For the first, he advanced on her, stepping closer and closer, until he shared her shadow. He was not much taller than her, and she tilted up her chin so as to meet his eyes without flinching.  
  
“What if Torion is who you think him to be?” she boldly pushed her words at him. “What if I had given up on you; what if I had moved on? You would stand there as if I were an erring child and scold me as if you were my father. You did not deign it fit to _ask_ me; you merely _assume,_ and judge my heart to be both faithless and untrue.”  
  
“Am I wrong?” he asked.  
  
“You are _infuriating_ ,” she hissed in reply, “Stubborn, prideful, vain and -”  
  
If later asked, he would have lied if he said that he did not expect to be slapped for his leaning down and kissing her. Her eyes were wide – furiously so – and her spirit shimmered with surprise as he gave into the overwhelming call of his own fëa. His emotions spun turbulently within him, as restless as the white rapids just beyond them. He kissed her as if to erase the memory of anyone else she may have kissed, so as to remind her, to _plead_ with her . . .  
  
He could make her _see_ , his thoughts were desperate as they spun. He could make her _remember_.  
  
_Remember what?_ The thought whispered through his mind. _Remember that you left her, that you let time pass, so much of it without . . ._  
  
And yet, even where her hands braced against his shoulders, her fingertips white as if to push him away – and he would have bruised if he did not have steel coating his body for the battle to come – he could feel the shape of her soul, and it was _glad_. It was hurt, it was wounded – for him, _from_ him, the thought hurt more than any other. Yet, a far off, deep part of her knew only joy. Her eyes burned, he could feel. She struggled not to let tears fall, and that, more than anything else had guilt rising in his throat, fit enough to choke him.  
  
But, though everything, he could not feel the shadow of another in her mind . . . and he waited for it, expecting that glimpse of thought and feeling to push him from her as a blow. He waited, tensing against what he was sure to find, even as . . .  
  
_What other?_ She returned, her thoughts as a whisper. _I have only ever waited, and you . . ._ She could not complete the thought, even within her own mind. He cradled her face in his hands as her mind's voice tapered off, moving to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheeks and forehead and nose. He kissed her tenderly, gently, and when he kissed her eyes he could taste the salt of her tears.  
  
_I waited too . . ._ he only had one way to shape his thoughts. It was difficult for him to pull his shields aside for anyone – even her - but he did so. Slowly, piece by piece, he bared his innermost self to her, hoping that she could see, hoping that she would understand. _I tarried . . ._ _unfairly so to you,_ _but I_ _still_ _waited._  
  
_. . . I am sorry_. He did not know what he was apologizing for – for the years or his doubts or his hesitation and fears. He included it all, letting her catch the tempest of his emotions and hold it close.  
  
She let out a deep breath when she drew away from him, as if she were still trying to hold on to her annoyance and her ire - but it was a losing battle. Her hands rested on his shoulders, but she no longer moved to push him away.  
  
“Torion is a friend,” she finally said, "A friend and a comrade. Both he and his _intended_ are dear to me, and I look forward to the day when you love them as well as I do.” She peered at him, closely watching his expression. “Many are the matches waiting for this war to end, it would seem.”  
  
“When the war is over . . .” he whispered, the idea of _after_ and _more_ settling in his spirit with a disbelieving quality. He touched her hair with a careful hand, and watched where she tilted her head so that he also touched the skin of her face in the same caress.  
  
“I told you centuries ago that you would someday ask, and I would answer,” when she spoke, her eyes were very bright. “I am ready now – in every way. I know your father's realm better than any other, and I know, I _know_ that the trees are calling you home, even now . . .” He could feel a flash of _green_ from her spirit, allowing him to see the forest through her eyes - the mighty trees with their boughs laced together so tightly that even the sunlight was green as it made its way to the forest floor, verdant and dripping with sanctuary and _life_. He could feel the sway of the great branches in the wind, he could hear the stories their ancient roots told of the places they reached to. He could hear the murmur of the river through the wood, and he imagined how the cool soil would feel against his palms when he touched the forest floor. He listened . . . and he let his spirit answer. He let it _yearn_.  
  
Thranduil rested his brow against her own, and felt as she settled herself into his embrace. The lines of her armor were hard, and they did not fit well against his own, but it was still _her_ , and he let her presence sooth his soul and bring a peace to his spirit. _After_ , he decided then . . . right after, he would ask her. He would not make her wait longer than that.  
  
“We only have this one last war to fight,” Calelassel whispered. “A war to fight for all homes.”  
  
“ . . . for now,” he whispered. “For now, this is the war we will wage for a time of peace. Yes.”  
  
“Ever do you let your mind dwell in dark places,” she said, and he felt a tremor of her sad acceptance for what had been apart of him for longer than she had even been alive. And yet, he felt a flash of determination, too – a flash of _decision_ as she touched his spirit with light and hope. This too she took as a challenge, one that she would confront head-on, as she ever did.  
  
“For you,” he said softly - as with a promise, “I shall try not to.”  
  
She did not say anything in reply. But he held her – inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling the warmth and strength of her body - and let himself think of nothing but the rightness he felt when he was with her. For the first, he thought not of the battle to come, but of the peace they would win for after . . . the peace, and the tentative idea of a new home and new beginnings. Holding her, it was easier to push the shadow away, allowing nothing but warmth to remain for a long, long time.  
  



	58. "grown but for weeds"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas & Tauriel || Prompt: _Ground_ , Free-write
> 
> I went with book-canon over movie-canon here with the Darkening in the Greenwood, so I have a few notes at the end of this if anyone is interested. If not, feel free to skip them. ;)
> 
> It is not needed to understand this piece, but if you want my version of the Thranduil/Mrs. Thranduil backstory, you can find that in chapters 50 and 57. Enjoy!

**Ground**  
  
In many ways, Rosgobel was much as the home he had always known.  
  
In the strictest sense, the great trees overhead formed the canopy of the Greenwood, yet, they were not trees that inclined their boughs to his father's crown. As such, the song of the wood differed in this corner of the forest – it's cadence was slightly faster; leaping rather than swaying. The breeze through the uppermost branches whistled with a higher pitch as it rustled the leaves and coaxed the branches to dance. The birds sang brightly, but their trilling song was unfamiliar to his ears. The differences were few, but they were there – and they were more than enough to keep him and Tauriel occupied as their elders met and spoke at great length about seemingly nothing of interest at all.  
  
Their host in Rosgobel was a funny little man that his mother called _Istari_ in a voice steeped with respect – a _Wizard_ , Amathelon had later whispered in further explanation, with magic waiting at his fingertips and secrets twinkling in his eyes. His father had simply called Radagast the Brown a raving simpleton with a mind muddled by mushrooms – before catching his mother's glare, that was. The wizard spoke in a silly, twittering voice – much like the birds overhead - but his words matched the lilt of the forest so much so that Legolas could not help but like the man. The wizard even enchanted the rabbits of Rosgobel to speak – or, as his mother had explained, Radagast simply gave them the ability to do what they had long known. Such a thing was a wonder indeed – and could only be described as _magic_ to the wide, fascinated ways of his child's mind.  
  
They met Radagast's contemporaries, as well – two silent sorts, cloaked in blue, whose voices sounded like the rumble of the sea when they spoke. Their tempers rose and fell like waves, and they gave riddles more so than straightforward talk. More approachable than the Blue Wizards was the Grey Wizard - who was all smiles and invitation, like a summer breeze and the warmth of a hearth fire. Legolas liked him almost instantly, and approved of him even further when the wizard set off his colored lights in the evening sky for his and Tauriel's amusement. The White Wizard was not as easy company as Gandalf to keep – he being as frost on the forest floor, heralding the approaching winter, to Legolas' senses. It was instinctive to bow his head low to the leader of the Istari, and that seemed to please Saruman, who then ventured to know him no further than that.  
  
Yet, even better than the Istari were the familiar names who gathered in Rosgobel – names whom Legolas knew from too many stories to mention, whose faces he now placed with their tales. First gathered in Radagast's cramped little dwelling were the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel – he as silver as the lady was gold – and his father actually _smiled_ to see Celeborn, their friendship being older than the sun up above. From just across the Anduin river was Lord Amroth, who ruled over the forests of Lórien as his father reigned in the Greenwood, with his easy smiles and his disarming warmth. From far across the mountains was Galdor from the Grey Havens, who had stories of the distant Sea, and Gildor who spoke for the wandering bands of Wood-elves east of the Misty Mountains. Legolas, who only knew the roots of his own forest, delighted in the tales Gildor had to tell, eager as he was for the day when he would learn the song of each forest there was to know.  
  
This was not his first time meeting the Lord and Lady of Imladris, but, much to his consternation, he still blushed when their daughter knelt to kiss his brow in greeting – which Tauriel saw, and smiled behind her hand in a way that promised that she was _not_ going to let him forget doing so anytime soon. Her laughing so loudly made the Silvan angles of her face look longer than they really were – like that of a horse, he teased to sooth his bruised pride - and he was not surprised when she tried to dunk him in the creek after that.  
  
Unfortunately, the wonder of visiting a new place soon gave way to just how _dull_ the endless debates truly were. The Wise did nothing _but_ talk, and their words only went in circles - or so it seemed before he was politely, but firmly, encouraged to amuse himself elsewhere. Amathelon escorted him from the largest hall in Radagast's dwelling (which fit the shorter height of the Wizard and his woodland friends just well, and not so much a council of so many tall beings), and showed him to the garden their host kept outback – which looked just as wild and tangled as the rest of the forest, no matter that there were tomatoes and peppers growing up unruly trellises here and there to imply otherwise.  
  
“Some years from now, you shall long for these moments of youth,” Amathelon said, tugging on his one braid affectionately. Legolas scowled at his brother before carefully setting the plait back in its place.  
  
“I am old enough to listen _now_. I am nearly thirty,” he protested, looking up earnestly as he said so. Amathelon was uncannily alike to their father in appearance, but he had a flare of green in his eyes that was all their mother. The soft, affectionate look he wore was their mother's too. Legolas bristled at it.  
  
“Yet, you are not old enough for wisdom if you insist on such persistence, it would seem,” Amathelon pointed out dryly.  
  
“I am old enough to know what we are here for,” Legolas stood up as tall as he could – doing so, he just reached his brother's shoulder. “There is a blackness touching the forests. That is what troubles our parents, what troubles Radagast - so much so that they called the Wise together.”  
  
Only months ago, he and Tauriel had searched for frogs down by the river, and when they grasped the roots that grew over the riverbank to climb out of the water, their hands came away stained with a queer black sap. No matter how they tried, they had not been able to wash the sap away, and a shadowed look fell over both their parents' faces when they saw their stained palms. The sap _itched_ – itched down to the bone, as if his very spirit took ill underneath the stain. Legolas clenched his hands at the memory, able to recall the sensation even now.  
  
Amathelon's look turned carefully blank, carefully neutral. “You do not understand, young one,” he said. For the first, his words lost their playful tone. Legolas could not deign whether or not it was sadness or stone in his brother's voice, and the more he listened, the more he heard both. “It is not that we do not trust you with what you would hear, but that you should not have to hear such things. Especially not before we ourselves know what it is we fear.”  
  
“But -”  
  
“ - _Legolas_ ,” Amathelon's voice turned sharp. “Please, stay in the garden, and leave these worries to others.”  
  
“Then, why was I even allowed to come?” He could feel his frustration bubble over. “If I was going to be kept in a corner, out of sight and out of mind, would it not have been better if I did not come at all? I could have stayed with Gelion, and no one would have to worry - ”  
  
“ - you may enjoy his tales, but Gelion is not fit to mind the _pantry_ , let alone watch over a prince of the realm,” Amathelon said tartly. “And the forests are no longer . . .” his words tapered off, and he then looked weary – as if he had thousands of years to his name rather than centuries. Legolas instantly felt abashed for troubling him when he clearly had other worries on his mind.  
  
“I am sorry,” Legolas said after a long moment. Overhead, the songs of the birds were no longer quite as bright. “I will stay here.”  
  
Amathelon sighed, but his eyes were fond when he reached to tilt up his chin. “Someday, there will be a villain of shape and form we face. When that day comes, not a force in this world will be able to keep you from my side. For now, enjoy your time here. Rosgobel has many mysteries, many wonders - which even I would rather be exploring, rather than being stuck inside. And, in Radagast's dwelling, I do mean _stuck_.” His mouth pulled in a wry grin, and just barely, Legolas smiled with him.  
  
Yet, his smile did not hold very long when Amathelon left. Legolas watched him go, and then slumped down on the massive root of a great tree. There was a ring of red topped mushrooms to his left, and he watched a fuzzy green caterpillar navigate a line of dead wood in the trunk of the tree with a sort of bored apathy. The silence of the forest was only broken by a quiet step some time later, and then Tauriel plopped down next to him with a sigh.  
  
“I made it as far as you,” she said in greeting, her pale brown eyes full with the green light of the forest. The trees danced with the breeze, casting shapes of light and dark over the shades of umber in her hair. Legolas watched her set her mouth in annoyance, before turning back to the caterpillar.  
  
He rolled his shoulders, resigned to his fate. “At least the setting is not too terrible,” he tried to cheer his friend. “We may chase the rabbits again, if you wish, and see if we can coax them to speak.”  
  
Tauriel looked at him, and arched a brow in reply. Legolas felt as if he was missing something.  
  
“You may sit here with the rabbits,” she tilted her chin up. “Yet, I intend to find that which is being kept from us. We should find what is shadowing the forests, rather than sit here and wait for the darkness to spread.”  
  
Legolas looked at her dubiously – which was normally the only way to reply when Tauriel came up with an idea that was more boldness than sense. For a moment, he did not say anything.  
  
For the most part, he was simply thankful to have a friend his age to play with – for elven children were rare, and the odds of there being two children of similar ages and dispositions within any community were slim to none. Yet, Tauriel's father had been his mother's second in command when she was merely the captain of the Greenwood's archers, and there was a bond between all of their parents as a result. Legolas would not have been surprised if they planned their births to coincide on purpose - for he was only a season older than Tauriel, born during the first days of summer while she was born in the autumn. Either way, Legolas was grateful for her. Tauriel was sharp-witted – to his disadvantage, at times – and she liked to climb trees and catch frogs and she did not mind being the Orc when they practiced with their training bows. She was even as good a shot as he was, though he would never tell her that . . . _ever_.  
  
Even so, being Tauriel's friend meant that, at times, there was a great deal of mischief to be dealt with. Legolas took in a deep breath, and wondered for the best way to argue her down from her idea without it seeming like he disagreed with her.  
  
She saw his hesitance, and frowned. “Are _you_ not curious?”  
  
“Of course I am,” he said. “Yet, at the same time . . .”  
  
“Remember the black sap by the river?' she pressed. The light in her eyes was very bright as she spoke. She need not have reminded him, though – he could not forget. “That is a small part of something more. Something _deeper_. Why else would the whole of the Wise be called together to speak in whispers? Can you not _feel_ it?”  
  
He knew of what she spoke. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bright, green song of the wood had taken on an odd note at the end of its melody. It was the slightest whisper of discord, the barest of disharmonies - itching against their senses and ever dancing just out of reach. The song of the trees was changing, and the forest hummed as with a warning as its heartbeat was altered.  
  
“What do you think it is?” he finally asked.  
  
Tauriel rolled her shoulders. She had a growth-spurt that spring, and her limbs were long and sharp about the joints as a result – for which he had teased her mercilessly, before she wryly pointed out that he was just jealous that she was now taller than he, even if it was only for the time being. He had not been able to respond to that.  
  
“I do not know,” she answered. “But the source of the discord is close to here. Look.” She pointed, and Legolas followed her gesture to see where the line of rot in the trunk went from this tree to the next . . . there was a line of dead trees further on, their leaves yellowing and sick. What at first looked to be a natural death in the forests was now something _more_ when that death linked one tree to the next, all the way to . . .  
  
“Where does this stem from?” he wondered.  
  
“I think,” Tauriel said slowly, “that is what the Wise are here to discuss.”  
  
She need not say anything more. Legolas stood, too drawn in to think of staying put. He made sure that his bow and quiver were secure upon his back, and he straightened his cloak. He was ready. Tauriel watched him, her mouth stretching into an approving look as she too stood, and then they left.  
  
They walked, following the line of wilting trees in the forest. He looked overhead to find their trunks ashen, their boughs heavy, even when empty of any weight. The few leaves they did hold were unhealthy shades of grey and purple-brown, almost like a bruise. The light passing through them, rather than being green, was a dark, sickly colour that Legolas did not care for as it touched his skin. He could not hear the song of the forest in these trees . . . only discord, only whispers.  
  
Still, they continued to follow the line of ghostly specters, carefully walking next to those trees still green and healthy – whose song was shaped in mourning as they sang to their fellows, trying to cure their sloping boughs of their sickness.  
  
“I am not sure that it is _someone_ we are looking for, but rather _something_ ,” Tauriel said after a moment. “This feels as a presence . . . something intangible.”  
  
Silently, he agreed with her. It was something in the ground, in the air and water, that turned the forest to rot. He was not sure if that was worse than a being of claws and fangs awaiting them at the end of the wilting trees.  
  
In the Greenwood, the trees grew close together. Their home was an old forest, more ancient than even the woods of Fangaorne or Lothlórien to the west. The trees around them were massive, growing in twisting and twining shapes rather than standing straight and tall. Their trunks grew on and on and _on_ , their limbs reaching out to weave a vast and mighty canopy that only the most stubborn light could reach through. In some places, the trees were so dense that it was hard to pass between them without ducking and climbing – which they did so with ease, long used to their forest home. As they made their way through a particularly dense area of trees growing on a ridge of black stone, Legolas remembered Amathelon speaking to their parents of webs growing in the dense parts of the forest - the parts where there was no sunlight from above, only the natural shadows thrown by the trees. Legolas looked up now, hoping that he wouldn't see a spider's fangs above him, yet prepared for anything.  
  
Just as his mind raced with that which could be lurking in the trees, he heard a snapping sound in the wood - a branch breaking in reply to a heavy step.  
  
His head snapped up, instantly searching the shadows for a shape.  
  
“Did you hear that?” Tauriel asked. She had heard it too.  
  
“You hear many things in the forest when so alert,” Legolas said when he did not hear anything more. His voice was tight, speaking to assure himself as well as her.  
  
The sound came again. This time Legolas could also feel a low pulsing against his senses . . . it did not feel _evil_ , yet it was most definitely shaped in warning.  
  
“And that?” Tauriel questioned.  
  
Legolas set his mouth into a thin line, but as they picked up their pace, the footsteps behind them quickened too. Above, the birds had stopped singing. He could not see squirrels in the trees, and the forest floor was absent of the woodland folk. This time, it was not only a heavy step that they heard, but a low, rumbling sound – pulsing through the ground and vibrating up through the tree his hand rested on for support.  
  
“There is something out there,” Tauriel whispered.  
  
“There is,” he agreed just as lowly, “and you are going to run back to Rosgobel to warn of it.”  
  
“While you do _what_?” she did not like his idea one bit. “Stay here and divert the beast?” what she meant to be mocking came out as the truth. She set her jaw, unhappy at her insight. “I _will not_ ,” she hissed in protest -  
  
“ - I am the better shot,” he reasoned sharply, cutting through her arguments.  
  
“You _are not_ ,” she disagreed. Had it not been for the rustling in the underbrush, coming ever closer to them, he was sure that she would have thumped his arm.  
  
“If there is something dangerous out there, I do not want to tell your father that I ran scared while you stayed behind to fight,” he said on a furious whisper. Worse than any scathing anger, Torion's gentle disappointment was the _last_ thing Legolas wanted to endure. He respected the bowman, and -  
  
“ - yet, you want _me_ to tell _your_ father that I left his son -” Tauriel's eyes were wide with incredulity, and he winced at her words, understanding her trepidation.  
  
“ - _Tauriel!_ ” even so, he interrupted her. They did not have time to argue. “I am _commanding_ you to do so.”  
  
She darted an amazed look at him, for while he technically held a crown above her, she was his _friend_ , and he had never done so before . . . He had never done so with anyone, really. Her eyes narrowed, yet she swallowed her protests. She inclined her head in the barest of bows – but not before he could see a flicker of worry in her eyes, and that more than anything else had him pushing his own fears away. He held his head up high in reply.  
  
Without another word, Tauriel ran back the way they had came – back to Radagast's dwelling – and he watched her for only a moment before he turned to run the opposite way.  
  
It did not take him long to realize that he was being followed. He was fast, very fast, and he was able to slip through the trees and underneath the great roots with very little trouble. Whatever followed him was large – large and heavy – with steps that slammed against the ground like thunder, and a breath that rumbled in a massive chest like the bellowing of a furnace.  
  
Legolas exhaled, and told himself that he was not afraid.  
  
He twisted and turned and ducked this way and that. Yet, no matter what he did, he could not seem to shake the beast that followed him. When he at last came to a dip in the land – where a sheer wall of stone rose, covered by vines and thick moss – he skidded to a halt, looking up at his blocked path with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Water rolled down the face of the stone in a wispy cascade to join the barest of streams to his right, while to his left the land dipped again in an even deeper ravine – one he would not be able to climb with just his hands.  
  
If he had to, he could climb up, he reasoned. He could scale the rock by the waterfall, or . . .  
  
Legolas felt where his quiver rested lightly against his back. The wood of his bow was smooth in his hands, and though he had only used it in mock situations . . .  
  
There was a first time for everything, he reasoned, his hands tightening over his bow. He could stand his ground here, he could _fight._  
  
_Amathelon would_ , the thought next ghosted across his mind. His brother would stand regal and calm and all but dare a foe closer. Legolas thought next of his mother's easy grace; the cool current that was his father with steel in hand. He even thought of Tauriel with her fierce, glittering eyes, and -  
  
He made his decision. He put his back to the stone wall, and drew in a deep breath. With a slow, deliberate motion, he drew an arrow and nocked it. He stood with his feet even with his shoulders, digging his boots into the soft earth as he looked at the gap in the trees. He watched . . . he waited.  
   
He did not have to wait for long. The heavy steps through the underbrush were softer now – the beast pursuing him had slowed to a walk, knowing that he had nowhere to go. Distantly, Legolas thought about the black sap staining his hands; the shadow gathering at the roots of the trees, and wondered if he had found that shadow now. The thought was not a comforting one, and he held his bow tighter in reply.  
  
“Show yourself,” he commanded in the coldest voice he could muster. He thought of his father upon his throne, and tried to mimic that same timeless power, that same bored indifference . . .  
  
There was a rumbling sound in reply to his words. Distantly, Legolas thought that it sounded like laughter.  
  
“Only cowards hide in the dark,” still he challenged. “Step out and face me, if you will.”  
  
The trees shuddered, yet there was no discord in their dance, even though they whispered to him in warning. He let out a breath as the dappled green light shifted to reveal a massive form making its way through the underbrush. He looked, expecting the worst, expecting every sort of unnatural creature, when, instead . . .  
  
_A bear?_ he blinked in surprise.  
  
A black bear walked out into the clearing; his body massive and strong, his fur thick and dense about his form. The great hump atop his back was as tall as Legolas' shoulders, and his snout was long and criss-crossed with many scars. Uneasily, he saw where just _one_ of the bear's paws was equal to the size of his face. If the bear wanted, it would take little thought and even less effort to tear him to ribbons if it felt threatened . . . Legolas held his bow up higher, warning the animal not to come any closer. The bear growled in reply – a low sound that seemingly rattled in his bones rather than sounding in his ears.  
  
“My name is Legolas Thranduilion, second prince of the Woodland-realm,” he tried to project his voice with power and _command_. “The trees overhead are those of Rosgobel. This is a safe and protected land underneath the hand of Radagast the Brown. Your hunt is not welcome here.”  
  
Even still, the bear took one step closer . . . and then another . . . The animal's growl was a rumbling sound in answer to his raising his weapon, and when he drew his lips back his teeth were strong and yellowing within his mouth. Legolas felt his heartbeat hammer, yet he refused to take another step back towards the wall behind him. He would not give up his ground.  
  
_So I hear you, elfling_ , the thought whispered across his senses. _And yet, what will you do now? It will take more than one arrow to stop me. Many have tried before,_ _and none have succeeded_ _._  
  
The animal's thoughts were fully formed, speaking as clearly as he would shape his own words. Surprised, Legolas looked, and saw the warm, amber color of the bear's eyes. When the bear blinked, he thought that he could see a flicker of green beneath the amber, and, in a way, that gaze was as familiar to him as his own.  
  
He drew the string of his bow tight, holding his stance as he had been taught. He exhaled, ready to reach back and draw another arrow as soon as the first was released, and yet . . . the bear only watched him. The bear bared his teeth and pawed the ground in agitation, but he came no closer . . . And Legolas could not loose his arrow. A strange tension bound his shoulders . . . his stomach twisted in an awful way . . . but he could not strike the beast before him.  
  
Slowly, he knelt to place his bow on the ground. The bear watched him as he straightened to stand once more. Carefully, he held his hands up with his palms out.  
  
“My name is Legolas Thranduilion, second prince of the Woodland-realm,” he said again. “The trees overhead are those of Rosgobel. This is a safe and protected land underneath the hand of Radagast the Brown. Your hunt is not welcome here.”  
  
The bear took one step forward . . . and then another. It then stopped in its path, and tilted its head.  
  
Legolas felt as if the bear was listening to him – or, to someone other than him, he thought next. The bear seemed to sigh in reply to a voice in his head, and then Legolas watched with wide, awe-struck eyes as the bear seemed to change before his gaze. The bear hefted his huge body to stand on two feet, while his legs lengthened and his body shrank in on itself. The massive paws turned to strong hands, and the bear's snout pressed inwards to form the face of a man – a man with strong features and a mane of the same coarse black hair that the bear bore, yet a _man_ nonetheless. When the transformation was done, a man stood where the bear once had – a very tall man, with great strong limbs . . . but the brown eyes were the same as the bear, warm and amber in the green light of the wood around them.  
  
Legolas blinked, unsure of whether or not to believe what his eyes had seen.  
  
“Not many are those who can hold their ground before the bear,” the man finally spoke, tilting his head so as to better take in his curious, startled expression. The man's voice was as deep as the bear's growl had been. They were one and the same.  
  
“I was not afraid,” Legolas claimed when he could find his voice, still wary as the man came closer. He took in the hands like paws and the rippling shape of the man's muscles, visible with the simple vest he wore, and knew that this being was still a force to be reckoned with. Around his chest, he wore a polished riverstone on a cord, etched with runes Legolas was ignorant to define. Also on the cord hung a set of old bear claws, and Legolas wondered for their story.  
  
“You say that you knew no fear?” the bear – the _man_ \- asked. He raised a thick, bushy brow in question. “The bear could _smell_ your fear, elfling. And yet . . . you intrigued him. Few are those who would lay down their arms before him - for the best in this instance, for he would have protected himself, and there would have been little I would have been able to do to stop him.”  
  
There was a rustling sound in the underbrush, delaying Legolas' answer. He turned at the sound of quick feet and the hiss of an indrawn breath, then -  
  
It was perhaps not very brave or grown-up of him to feel a boneless sort of relief when he saw his mother appear through the trees with her own bow in hand, and yet – that was exactly how he felt. Behind Calelassel stood his brother, wearing a look of cool fury upon his face, such as Legolas had not seen on him before. At that too he felt a warm wave of contentment spread through him, certain that no harm could come of the situation now.  
  
Calelassel too wore a cold look of fey anger upon her face, yet it softened upon seeing the bear-man . . . but only slightly.  
  
“Björn,” she uttered stiffly in greeting.  
  
“Lady Greenwood,” the bear-man inclined his head in a deep motion, not quite unlike a bow. Legolas looked between them, surprised to learn that they knew each other. The bear-man – _Björn_ \- glanced briefly at him before turning to his mother to say, “I was journeying to speak before your council when your young one encountered me. Only, I was then in a . . . form more suitable for traveling.”  
  
Calelassel gave nothing away upon her face, but Legolas could feel as his mother's presence sought him out, subtly looking him over for any harm. He opened his mind to her search, trying to assure her that he was well.  
  
Björn must have felt a flicker of the exchange, for he tilted his head and said, “No harm befell the child. Rather, the bear was . . . intrigued.” When he smiled, the tips of his teeth were very sharp.  
  
Calelassel did not reply to his words. Instead, she said, “We called to the Carrock, yet you did not answer our summons then.”  
  
Björn rolled his shoulders in a show of apathy. “I yet had no reason to. The Grey Wizard knows my voice, as does your husband. I will continue to guard the Fords, and the world will continue on much as it ever has. And yet,” he paused. The great lines of his face turned hard. “My kin were following the salmon up from the south of the Great River, and one brought with him a disturbing token from the old hill of Amon Lanc. There is something settling there . . . growing . . . _building_ . . . and it infects the forest with its taint.”  
  
Björn reached into the pocket of his vest to reveal an oilskin, tightly wrapped around a small object. He handed the item to his mother, and with a careful hand, Calelassel warily pulled the skin aside to reveal -  
  
\- Legolas sucked in a breath. For a moment, his lungs felt tight, and his skin crawled over his bones with that same _itching_ sensation he felt from the black tar in the river. It was a root his mother held . . . but one that was completely black . . . rotted not by any natural means, but by a powerful enchantment. He looked to his mother, wondering what it meant, only to find that her face was pale and still. He felt a wave of . . . he would call it _fear_ if it was not his _mother_ who felt so, but fear it was. Fear . . . and mourning.  
  
“This is not as I have felt since . . .” Calelassel let out a sharp breath. Her face turned hard again. When she looked to Björn, there was gratitude in her expression. “I thank you, skin-changer. With this, you have answered a great many things.”  
  
When she covered the black root again, Legolas felt as if he could breathe.  
  
“Will you come and speak of what you have seen?” she asked next. Her throat was dry as she found her voice.  
  
Björn shook his head. “No. I will return to my own people now, for there is much to be done. You too should make preparations. The south of the forest will turn first, and the Black Mountains will not protect you for long – the further north you go, the better. The North-men already call the trees _Mirkwood_ when they pass though my lands . . . and, if the sons of Men can feel what rots the ground underneath their feet . . .”  
  
“I understand,” Calelassel inclined her head, her thoughts already racing through her eyes.  
  
Yet, Legolas frowned, affronted. _Mirkwood_ , he tried to puzzle out the name, finding it ill to describe the great beauty of the home he had so long known. _Mirkwood_ they called it, when he knew the trees for their green bounty and their wondrous song . . . Yet, if this shadow spread . . . if this shadow touched all, and the green leaves fell purple and grey while the roots turned black with rot . . .  
  
Gruffly, Björn nodded. “I would take my leave of you now,” he said. He looked at Tauriel, peeking out from behind Amathelon's shadow, and then turned to glance at him. Again the bear-man smiled. “I would keep your young ones close through nightfall,” he advised Calelassel. “The bear is fickle, and I rather _like_ this one.”  
  
His mother said nothing, instead raising a brow in reply to his words. Yet, Björn did not see her do so as he turned again to Legolas. This time, when the bear-man approached, he felt no fear.  
  
Legolas was surprised when Björn went to undo the tie at the back of his neck. He then took the riverstone necklace, and handed it to him with a careful hand. “Remember your courage, and your understanding for folk other than your own,” the man said – sounding more like the bear as he readied to leave the man behind. Legolas looked, and saw where the amber in his eyes was shot through with green – Yavanna's green, he could not help but think. “In the days to come, such an understanding between all peoples will be needed as the shadow falls. Even now, something tells me that your empathy will shape more futures than merely your own.”  
  
Legolas took the pendant, and inclined his head. “I thank you, skin-changer,” he said as respectfully as he could. Björn gave one last sharp smile in reply.  
  
He turned to leave, and they all watched as the man's shadow disappeared through the trees before shifting entirely - then there was only the bear and his great, rumbling step as he made his own way once more. Legolas looked, and saw where his mother and Amathelon kept a sharp eye on the trees until they could hear the bear no more. Only then did they stand at ease.  
  
Calelassel turned and walked those few steps to kneel down before him, looking him eye to eye. “My brave son,” she said as she reached out to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch, watching as the forest light turned her eyes the same green as the bear's had been. “I am very proud of the way you conducted yourself,” she said with warmth in her voice. “And yet,” she tilted her head to the side – listening to a voice only she could hear. “When you return, your father wishes to speak to you both - ” and there she darted a glance at Tauriel “ - about boundaries and the reason for their placement.”  
  
Legolas sighed, resigning himself to his fate as his mother stood. Amathelon too caught his eye and raised a brow – in amusement or exasperation, or both, he could not tell. But then his brother turned, and started back through the trees behind their mother. Legolas waited a moment before following, allowing Tauriel to fall into step beside him.  
  
She looked at Björn's pendant with a wondering eye, and when he let her touch the necklace, she did so with a careful hand. “Were you not afraid?” she asked as they walked, her eyes curious upon his own.  
  
“ . . . yes,” he answered truthfully – thinking about his fears for both the Shadow, and the massive paws of the bear. He then thought about the deep roots of the trees - their ancient hearts, built to endure through all things. He took in a deep breath, and felt lighter with the motion.  
  
“Yes, I was afraid,” he answered as he looked up at the forest canopy, “Yet, in the end, that did not matter.”  
  
Tauriel smiled as she handed back the pendant, and Legolas put it around his neck with a reverent hand. When he looked up again, the shadows growing from the roots of the trees did not seem quite so dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Timeline** : In the year 1000 of the Third Age, the Wizards came to Middle-earth. By the year 1050, Sauron returned as a spirit to the hill of Amon Lanc in the Greenwood, and started to build Dol Guldur. His taint touched the forest so much so that the Northmen start to call the forest Mirkwood. By 1100, the Wise were called to figure out who and what was haunting the forests – although, underneath Saruman's ruling, it was then simply believed to be a Nazgûl. At that time, Thranduil moved his people from the Black Mountains all the way north in the Greenwood – the UT even mentions that Galadriel's return to Lothlórien was so that she could keep an eye on Dol Guldur, visible from the heights of Caras Galadhon. By the year 2060, even Saruman had to acknowledge that it was Sauron coming back in power, and Gandalf – with or without permission, we do not know – went and drove Sauron from Dol Goldur, and forced him back to Mordor. (Jackson leaves all of this out in his version. Instead the White Council looks like a bunch of idiots with no clue what is going on.) 
> 
> Sauron would return to Dol Guldur almost 400 years later, and his power would then be too great for Gandalf to defeat alone. (That would end up being over 400 years before the events of the _Hobbit_ , for reference.) I find it interesting that Thranduil may have been involved with the Wise early on, but by the time of the _Hobbit_ , he was nowhere near the council, even when they decided to march on Dol Goldur in his forest. It is something to think on – and explore further in some ficlet to come. 
> 
> **Amathelon** : The closest we can translate Thranduil's name to is 'river-shield', so Amathelon is another translation of that. Did Legolas have any siblings in canon? We have no idea, but it isn't too farfetched a thought and really, I need a reason to explain Thranduil's later paranoia and grumpiness, and I am unfortunately going to be a very mean author to his family in doing so . . .
> 
>  **Legolas' Age** : Ah, the ever much debated subject! And it pretty much hangs on this one clue – in FoTR, Legolas mentioned that he had never been to Lothlórien before. If he was born any time in the Second Age – or very early in the Third Age, when the elves of the Greenwood were still close with their kin across the river - that would have been odd at the very least and far-fetched at best. Yet, around the year 1050 - the time of this ficlet - Thranduil moved his people all the way north in the forests, which would have made traveling too and from Lothlórien a little more difficult to manage. Then, add in the Shadow making Mirkwood such a dangerous place to transverse, it stands to reason that Thranduil's people would not venture far beyond their own halls – especially with the way Thranduil's paranoia and isolationism grew over the years. So, we can argue that Legolas was born around this time, or sometime in the watchful peace that stretched after Gandalf drove Sauron away from the forests in 2063-2460. The latter option paints Legolas as too young for my tastes (only 950- 550 years old by the time of LoTR!), so here we are with the 1050-ish option as a result. (Honestly, that is another reason for my coming up with Amathelon – if he was born early in the Third Age, it stands to reason that Thranduil and wife would wait a few centuries before having Legolas. It's another effort to explain just why Thranduil is so old and Legolas is so young.)
> 
>  **Tauriel** : I debated long and hard before including her. Because I _do_ like the potential of her character, I just wish that we didn't see so much of her in DOS when other, canon parts of the plot were hacked and slashed. ( . . . and that is only if I do not think about that God-awful healing scene that looked more like a bedroom scene . . . They sure didn't show Elrond healing Frodo that way. ;)) I would have liked her _a lot_ more if she wasn't the center of a love-triangle, that's for sure. But, in the end, I had fun playing with her as a younger character, and decided to ignore all the rest. So, here we are. 
> 
> That said, all of that is from me piecing various bits and pieces together, so if I missed something just call it fan-interpretation. ;)


	59. "drawn from ruin"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annael & Rían || Prompt: _Aftermath_ , Free-write
> 
> Here I take quite a few liberties with the backstory of a minor character, so feel free to accept my head-canon - or disregard it - as you see fit. ;)

The days were lengthening and turning cold with frost when first they found her.  
  
The wild ways of Mithrim were no place for a woman alone. They had not been before the Fifth Battle, and they most certainly were not now. Yet, the figure crouched in the tall grass – her dark brown curls impossibly tangled and matted with dirt; her young face creased with premature lines about her mouth and eyes – was alone, and the worst off for it. Annael's men were baffled as they dismounted to see if the poor creature was even alive, cold as the air was with the threat of snow around them. When they found a pulse, she awakened with a start, her eyes wild and wide, even to a hand extended in friendship.  
  
“She is many miles from the Men's dwelling in Dor-Lómin,” one man said to Annael, his Sindarin soft and whispered – unsure if the woman could understand their tongue. “How has she made it this far? In this condition . . .”  
  
For she had no horse, and if she carried supplies with her, she had long since lost them. Her eyes were sunken into her face and hollow; her bones were thin and bird-like; her fingers bleeding and torn from where she had pulled herself across the land with some stubborn, brightly burning spark deep within her. Annael watched as she tried to focus her eyes, as she tried to understand what was going on around her.  
  
“She carries a child within her,” another of his warriors whispered next. “Or, she did . . . only a miracle of the One would have preserved it alive now.”  
  
The elf's voice was grim, for such miracles had long since left their land.  
  
And yet, for now, this daughter of Men was alive – clinging to life by some basic instinct, deep inside of her. They would do their best to see that she remained that way.  
  
“ _Huor?_ ” was the only word she spoke once she was settled upon his horse. It took two men to help her mount the animal with the heavy girth of her child about her stomach, and her eyes clenched shut in discomfort as she settled in against Annael – who was trying to sooth the curious stallion beneath him, and hold the woman steady all at once. He looked, and saw her fingers numb and bitten with frost about the fur of the cloak she had just been given.  
  
“Huor . . . my lord, my husband? . . . perhaps you have seen him? . . . please, I must find him.” Her voice cracked when she spoke, her vocal cords dry from both overuse and the cold. Distantly, Annael wondered how many days she had passed in the barren grasslands, screaming her husband's name. The light in her eyes was fever-bright, desperate and consuming. It was a look Annael knew well, having seen it in the gazes of too many dying men upon the battlefield to name - each remembering their loved ones in their last moments, and asking their love to be conveyed by others when they would no longer be able to speak of it.  
  
“Shh, child,” he felt a pang as she turned eyes filled with hope upon him. “What is your name?” he asked, but her eyes only turned blurry when she realized that he did not have the answers she sought.  
  
“Rían . . . Belegund's daughter,” she whispered, and he held her tighter as they turned back the way they had came. “Huor . . . Huor,” she continued to mutter, the name a constant question upon her lips. Her eyes turned unseeing, her words turned soft and softer still as the land fell away around them. When she fell silent, Annael looked down to find her sleeping – at long last giving in to either the exhaustion of her body or unconsciousness. Which, he knew not.  
  
Either way, time was no longer this woman's friend, and Annael urged his horse on faster, hoping that they had found her in time to prevent the war from taking one last soul . . .  
  
He had left with his men to secure their borders against the growing numbers of Orcs and Easterlings invading their land. Their departure had been early in the morn, so when they returned at midday with a human woman in hand, great was the surprise on the faces of those they greeted.  
  
Ellil, their healer, was summoned, and her eyes were wide as the girl was gently pulled down from his horse. Rían did not awaken, and the whisper of her spirit was quiet against the cage of her flesh.  
  
“We found her like this, searching for her husband in the wild,” Annael was quick to explain. “We could not leave her as such.”  
  
Ellil muttered underneath her breath, and her eyes were wide as she felt against the poor woman's swollen stomach. She blinked, as if unsure to trust what her senses were telling her, before she said: “In her determination to find her husband, she may have endangered what little she has left of him. I do not think she realized that her labor was upon her – she must have confused hunger and exhaustion with her pangs of distress. Come, we have much to do – and quickly,” she turned to his men, sending one baffled warrior off for clean towels and hot water, and another forth to prepare a room in the healer's chambers for the girl.  
  
Annael looked down as Ellil crouched over Rían, feeling a sinking weight fill him at her words. The human woman could not be more than twenty years of age herself - little more than a child in the eyes of Men, barely an infant in the eyes of the Elves. Yet, when she blinked, her eyes were older than any Annael had yet to see.  
  
“Would that Glaeweth was here. I do not know if I can . . .” Ellil muttered, before glancing at him with regret in her eyes. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said next. “I did not mean to -”  
  
He touched the healer's shoulder, and managed a smile he did not feel. “I think the same every day,” he assured her. “Yet, you shall do well in her place.”  
  
Once . . . long ago, he had been married. Glaeweth had been a healer amongst their kind – a true healer, with Songs binding her hands and spilling from her tongue. When the Noldor had first arrived from across the Sea, the Elves of the West had known no need for such skills – for what was there to heal in a land so golden and deathless as far off Aman? The Exiles soon learned that the bliss of Ennor was a far cry from the home they had so willfully abandoned, however, and Glaeweth – with her patience and her care – had been there to help where she could, and to school others in her art.  
  
Such were her skills that Fingolfin himself had beseeched her to save the life of his nephew when Maedhros was returned from Angband through Fingon's daring. His wife had spent days – _weeks, months_ – putting that ruin of an elf back together again, calling upon every herb and song and skill she knew to make whole what had been tortured and broken beyond repair.  
  
Perhaps it was that memory that moved him to join the fight when called, when so few of his people would move from their places to give of their aid. The Sindar of the north would fight for the House of Fingolfin, whom they respected, and they were ready and willing to follow Fingon his son into battle, and yet, with the sons of Fëanor also marching . . . There were too many still bleeding wounds, too much bruised pride – from the Kinslaying far across the Sea, to Celegorm and Curufin's dishonorable dealings with their Princess Lúthien and the death of Lord Finrod, who was beloved by them all. His people refused to walk where the sons of Fëanor walked, and they most certainly refused to fight when it would be such a faithless and dishonorable people holding shields at their backs.  
  
It was a sentiment that Annael could not completely fault. All too easily, he could remember the way Curufin had slurred his newly learned Sindarin in clipped ways, purposefully butchering the language he knew full well - before speaking in High Quenya over the heads of those gathered, as if the _Moriquendi's_ blindness to the Trees meant that they had not been able to learn the Exiles' language as the Exiles had learned their own. He could remember the way Celegorm swept his wife's tray of surgical instruments to the ground when his brother's wounds turned rank with infection once more, and he could still hear the low, angry words Caranthir spoke with every day Maedhros did not better. He could remember his own anger turning hot as he advised Glaeweth to let them mend what their own hands had left to die. Maedhros' life was not her burden to heal, and there was no need for her to bear the indignities heaped upon her.  
  
And yet, she had replied: “They do not know what to do with their grief, with their anger . . . and it stems from more than their brother's wounds alone. Better I bear with their barbs, rather than one who would take true offense at their words, is that not so, husband?” Her eyes had been pointed upon him as she uttered her last words, and he had bowed his head in reply – accepting her counsel.  
  
As ever, she had been able to feel what others would keep hidden. She could see what was not intended to be seen, and Annael had trusted her. He allowed her to bow her head and present herself as one low when she was a ruling Lady amongst her people, a kinswoman of Círdan and an even more distant kinswoman of Thingol – even when these princes of the Noldor saw no worth in the titles and ranking of the _Moriquendi_ , failing to differentiate between her and the maids who tidied up their chambers behind them.  
  
Instead of remembering every moment of boiling anger, he forced himself to recall the way Maglor carefully picked up every item his brother had swept aside. The minstrel had set them all back into place, and listened to Glaeweth's Songs as if he could recreate them himself. He alone of his brothers had bowed his head and called her _Lady_ in a voice steeped with respect. Annael forced himself to remember the hollow-eyed look in the eyes of the twins, neither ever speaking but in whispers between their minds. He remembered the way Maedhros had taken Glaeweth's hands in his one remaining hand when he was finally conscious enough to do so. He remembered how the hollow, empty look in his eyes had cleared as he thanked her for her efforts. Maedhros' scars had been red and angry across his skin, so different from the wispy lines of silver that stood upon his body now, and maybe it was that _look_ , that refusal to die - even when every cell in his body screamed for relief - that had Annael marching when the Noldor called.  
  
All he had known at the start of the war was a hope – a raw, expectant thing. He had allowed himself to think that maybe, just _maybe_ , these lords of the Noldor would succeed where his people had long failed.  
  
Annael had fought . . . and he had prayed to the Valar for their success . . . only to watch his people, _all_ of his people take a blow like none other they had yet endured. The Nírnaeth Arnoediad had been nothing more than blood and tears, leaving most of the land as ruin in it's wake, and the people left remaining slow with shock and disbelief.  
  
Even now . . . he watched for hours as Ellil struggled to preserve Rían alive, knowing that he would have no hopeful words to speak to the poor woman once her child was delivered. For he had known Huor, son of Galdor, well upon the battlefield. He had watched as Huor sacrificed himself during those final hours of conflict, giving his own life out of love for the Elf-king Turgon. Great had been the bravery of Huor, and many were the songs now sung in his name.  
  
And yet . . . Annael was not his wife, and he spent many long hours during Rían's labor wishing that he had Glaeweth's songs, Glaeweth's healing hand, as Ellil fought long and hard, refusing to let either child or mother slip into Námo's keeping. When the babe's wails at last filled the chamber, the cries were louder than his memories of screams upon the battlefield. There was _life_ in this sound, in the impossibly small shape of Huor's son. This was _life_ , when all around them was only death and ruin as far as the eye could see.  
  
Now there was none of the Noldor's power left in the north, and Morgoth walked freely throughout the land. Annael knew that he would have to move quickly in relocating his people as the Easterlings invaded the land that Morgoth gave to them in reward for their treachery. There were caves in the mountain-ways, and his people would be safe there – sheltered from view until their enemy forced them to flee again.  
  
In the end, they stayed only long enough for Rían to regain the strength to travel once more. Slowly, ever so slowly, she healed. She held her head up regally, and yet, her dark eyes were still far from them in every way. Her physical form may have mended itself, but her soul was still as a ghost, just barely clinging to life. Her wilting body had not produced milk enough for her son, and more often than not, Annael was left feeding the young one from a bottle as Rían lost interest in all around her – even in the child she had born.  
  
“Please, good lady,” he tried to convince her, one last time. “Androth is a good place, a sheltered place. You and your son will be safe there.”  
  
Even though Rían stood before him, her spirit was already far away. Her eyes were absent and glazed, and the hand she touched to her son's cheek was shaped in farewell.  
  
“And yet, without Huor, there is no place for me,” she muttered. “I will find my lord, and with him I shall stay.”  
  
Her words were whispered, for she knew full well that all she would have left of Huor was the bare remains of his physical body. Deep down, Annael knew that she would journey there, not to say her farewells, but to bid a farewell of her own. Huor's final resting place would become her own, and Annael stood before her, frustrated and helpless, unsure of how to convince her to _live_ – both for herself, and for her son . . . There was grief in loosing a mate, this he knew, oh how he _knew_ , but there was still life to be found in the days after. There was still living to be done, as long as the One blessed them with the breath in which to do so.  
  
. . . this was a truth he had only just realized himself, with Tuor warm in his arms, and the baby's eyes wide and innocent as they stared up at him. Glaeweth would have loved this child, he thought on a whisper, just as he most surely did.  
  
Yet, the girl was already gone, he knew, and no healing song will be able to pull her back from where she had followed her husband in all ways. And yet . . . Rían's son.  
  
Though he had never been a father – he had given up on that privilege and joy as soon as Glaeweth's eyes were closed by force – he knew how to hold this baby. It was instinct that had him cradling the small body, that had him supporting the weight of his head with his hands. Gently, he rocked the bundle in his arms, and even before Rían was gone from sight, he looked down at Tuor, and found his heart latching on irrevocably to the child he held. The boy's eyes were wide and blue, ignorant to the pain and death that had been his midwife and mother thus far. Tuor was small - too small, really - from the trials of his birth, yet there was strength in the impossibly tiny fingers that reached out to wrap around his hand. There was already such a presence in the ocean of his gaze, and much as Rían had, Annael could feel the touch of destiny bright against his spirit.  
  
For the first time in much too long, Annael looked, and saw _life_ rather than the far-reaching hand of devastation and despair. He could feel a beginning waiting in this child, ready and unsullied.  
  
The wars against Morgoth had taken much from all, and yet, if he could save this one life . . . He bowed his head, and though the child was mortal, as far from his kind as noon was from night, he felt the babe settle in against his soul, irrevocably woven from now to the end of his days.  
  
“Welcome, Tuor, son of Huor, into the House of Alphon, and into my heart,” he whispered into the human child's delicately curved ear. “May the stars shine all the more brightly over your path, and light your steps as you have so surely lightened mine.”  
  
In reply, the baby made a gurgling noise, and Annael turned away from the fading figure in the distance, ready to carry on with life anew.


	60. "how this, and love too, will ruin us"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Truly, Madly, Deeply_ , Free-write
> 
> And here we are with the next part of their tale! For those who are interested, the prior ficlets in this arc are chapters 10, 31, 34, 52, and 53. This one pics up right where the last one left off. :)

**Truly  
  
** In the end, Caranthir did not remain in Estolad long enough to hear her answer.  
  
Oh, he could have lied to himself; he could have said that he was giving Haleth her space, that he was letting her make her decision without the added pressure of his presence. He told her to consider her answer carefully, for he'd meant it when he said that he would not be able to bear regret on her part. It was better to let her be, even if that time alone allowed her to reason over every reason she should deny his suit, and deny it quickly. Even still, the unguarded truth of the mater remained the same: he did not think he could look her in the eye, and hear her whisper _no_. He did not think that he could bear her refusal; that he could carry on as her friend and companion after so foolishly laying his heart so open and raw before her. He knew that he was a coward, shying away from the inevitable, but he could not yet bring himself to face the waiting blade.  
  
As a result, before the sun rose the next day, he saddled his horse, and turned for the south. As the daylight touched the world around him, he let himself hold on to the idea – the one, foolish hope – that, when he returned, she would have the answer he wanted most to hear.  
  
And, if she did not . . .  
  
Well, he would simply deal with that when the time came.  
  
At first, he was not quite sure where he meant to go. He followed the gentle sway of the plains, letting the lazy roll of the fields guide him until he reached the great hills of Andram. It was then an easy decision to turn to the east - where he had kin dwelling on the lone hill of Amon Ereb, guarding the passages into the southern most ways of Beleriand. It had been too long since he had last seen the youngest of his brothers, he reasoned, and this way he could speak truly when asked where he had gone off to – rather than admitting to wandering with the anxious trepidation of an unsure suitor.  
  
By the time Caranthir finished his journey, the heavy grey skies and the muggy heat of the last few days finally gave way to fat droplets of rain. He was thankful for the grey structure he could see on the horizon, ready as he was to be indoors before the storm developed in full. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he spurred his horse on faster, ignoring the rain as it fell in his face and intensified with each stride they passed.  
  
As a whole, Amon Ereb was the smallest of the Fëanorian strongholds - it was quiet, too, being situated far from Angband in the north. The compound was a structure of dull grey stone, standing practical and sturdy upon a massive hill. It was a plain building, the touch of Fëanor only visible in the strength of its design, in the impregnability of its execution. Within the fortress – for that was truly what it was – beauty could be found in the swirling mosaics upon the floors and the great tapestries lining the stone walls. Yet, those were the only glimpses of wealth and art to be found within.  
  
. . . then again, the Ambarussa ever had but little of the Noldorin vanity about them. Rather did they find beauty and indulgence in the excess elsewhere.  
  
The steward did not have to announce his arrival before his brothers found him; their steps soundless in the echoing corridor and their words pushed aside in favor of the _presence_ he could feel brush against his senses in welcome. He looked up to greet them in turn, true joy cutting through the turbulence of his emotions – and, belatedly, he hoped that was _all_ they were able to glean from his mind before their presence dulled against his senses, retreating to their normal resting place within his spirit once more.  
  
Identical in every feature – to the point where they mirrored one another in every word, every motion, it was sometimes disconcerting to hold their dual, unblinking stare. Finwë's grey was as the barest glimmer of pigment within their eyes, while their hair was red and perfectly straight, so dark that it may as well have been black - so different from Nerdanel's fiery waves in every way. As always, Amras wore two braids behind his right ear, while Amrod wore only one, so as to help others tell them apart. Caranthir was thankful for the gesture, for even _he_ hesitated when telling who was who – and he knew the twins better than any other of his brothers, at that.  
  
“We have had riders from Lake Helevorn, looking for you,” Amras said in lieu of a greeting. There was a question in his voice, one that Caranthir did not much care to answer. “You have been gone through both the spring and summer, have you not?”  
  
“I have left my people in good hands,” Caranthir said, his voice sounding stiff to his own ears.  
  
“That is what we said - ” Amrod agreed, moving forward with his twin to kiss his left cheek while Amras kissed the right.  
  
“ - when we told them you were _here_ ,” Amras continued, his eyes glittering.  
  
“It has simply been an excellent season for the hunt - ” Amrod said.  
  
“ - and you were beyond these walls at the time,” Amras finished. “Thus, you were unable to meet the messengers.”  
  
Caranthir found a flicker of amusement in the twins' gaze, before that gave way for a question – an invitation to say more. He set his mouth, wondering what he needed to say aloud, and what was already known due to their uncannily accurate perception. While there were many things whispered about the youngest of Fëanor's sons, he knew at least this much to be true: there was only one soul between the brothers, a soul born between two bodies, when, perhaps, there should have only been one. While others could whisper about his mother's weary fëa (Nerdanel had already been little more than a vessel for Fëanor's fire while carrying Curufin – who was their father in all ways as a result – and bearing the twins had nearly crippled her), and his father's madness of spirit (for the twins were begotten while Fëanor was still consumed with the fervor of creation and drunk on the Silmaril's holy light), Caranthir simply knew them as the Ambarussa, who completed each other's sentences and moved as one, rather than two. While they tended to be . . . _disconcerting_ to others, they were still his _brothers_ , and this was simply how they were. It was the same as Maglor carrying song in his veins and Curufin breathing in and out with the forge - no more and no less.  
  
“Perhaps - ” Amrod whispered, tilting his head to the side.  
  
“ - you can tell us more?” Amras offered, his head tilted exactly the same way.  
  
“After you dry off - ”  
  
“ - and settle in,” Amras concluded.  
  
Caranthir took their offer for the respite it was – grateful for the time he had to gather his thoughts, deciding then what he would say, and what he wouldn't say. He walked the familiar halls to the guest chamber he normally claimed as his own, and then took his time with wringing out the heavy fall of his hair and changing into a set of dry clothes. By the time he joined the twins in their study, the sun had set once more. The rain still fell, sounding as a dull pitter-patter far above their heads. It must have been quite the downfall to sound so loudly through the dense stone, he thought.  
  
The Ambarussa did not immediately look up at him. Due to the peculiar cast of their minds, the twins excelled at the work of a scribe – with one brother reading a scroll while the second wrote in another, their minds one continuous conduit of thought and information. They could spend hours like so, letting the world fade away around them. As such, Caranthir did not move to interrupt them. Instead, he leafed through the work they had already compiled, curious for what subject they delved into now. Almost immediately, he recognized Finrod's elegant hand upon the scrolls they copied, and he raised a brow, wondering what his brothers were doing with these.  
  
“Ingoldo passed through our lands with a _select_ host from Nargothrond, not even a turn of the moon ago,” Amras answered his question before he spoke it. The younger elf's pale gaze flickered over him, before turning back to his words.  
  
“They were on their way to the River-lands; where the trees walk on their roots, and the Shepherds speak when spoken to,” Amrod continued.  
  
“With them were a few sons of Men. Boromir, Bëor's grandson, was amongst them, and most curious for meeting the Onodrim for the first. Boromir had a girl-child with him - ”  
  
“ - Andreth, I believe her name was,” Amrod supplied for his brother. “A clever little thing she was, especially for one of mortal blood. Finrod said that she reminded him of Artanis in her girlhood, which we can more than believe.”  
  
Amras nodded his head in agreement. “It was pleasant to have the laughter of a child within these walls. Pleasant indeed.”  
  
“While the Sindar amongst his followers camped beyond these walls, Finrod had no such qualms about visiting kin, and he left us with these,” Amrod tilted his head, and Caranthir caught a moment's sighting of teeth when he smiled. Just as quickly, the expression was gone.  
  
Caranthir poured himself a glass of wine from an obliging decanter, and then moved to take a seat before the cheerfully burning fire. Even though the last days of summer were hot beyond the fortress, the thick walls were designed to keep away the heat, and the temperature inside was cool as it was not out. He hid the tight line of his mouth by taking a long draw of the dark vintage, not wanting to think too much of Finrod then. The other man was the only one of Arafinwë's children who deigned to _lower_ himself and seek out reparations with the Kinslayers following the Darkening, and Finrod had repaired his relationships with all of his brothers in the days since then. Some, more truly than others, he acknowledged - for while his elder two brothers truly enjoyed Finrod's wisdom and company, he knew that Celegorm and Curufin's minds more closely aligned with his own. They would smile one way, but those smiles did not hold once Finrod's back was turned. Caranthir cared for such artifice as much as he cared for Finrod's doe-eyed naïvety, and he himself would settle with such masks not.  
  
Amrod and Amras, however, had more of a practical relationship with the lord of Nargothrond - especially with the now teeming number of Men settling on what was technically their land in Estolad. Even now, the scrolls they copied – no doubt to build their own personal collection – were Finrod's essays about his interactions with the Atani, detailing everything from his theories about the nature of mortality, to a healer's notes on everything from the common cold to the more serious of mankind's ailments – ailments which had at first baffled elven healers, but now were taken in stride and treated as everything else in this marred land was.  
  
Yet, Caranthir did not look twice at the scrolls. He had come to Amon Ereb to pleasantly numb his mind, not to remind himself of the situation he had left behind in Estolad. And now, that was precisely what he was going to do. He was not going to think about how her pleased surprise had softened the hard planes of her face . . . or the way her smoky blue eyes had darkened when he - no. _No_. He was not going to think about that . . . at all.  
  
. . . truly.  
  
Caranthir took another long sip of his wine. He stared at the fire, letting the dancing tongues of flame pleasantly numb his pains until he was most definitely _not_ thinking about -  
  
“This is most curious indeed.” Amras spoke softly – to Amrod, it would seem, but Caranthir knew the twins better than that. The Ambarussa only ever spoke their words out loud for the benefit of others, as they were unable to tell their own minds apart – nor did they much care to do so. They did not need the spoken language between themselves, and thus, they did not often speak their words to others.  
  
Caranthir sucked in a deep breath, and told himself that he would not ask. He took another long swallow of his wine, and found the glass empty when he drew it back. He frowned when he realized that the decanter was by his brothers, idly wondering if he could refilled his glass without looking down at the scrolls they copied.  
  
After a moment – a long moment – he decided to try.  
  
Amras moved the wine closer to him, placing it down on a ruffled piece of parchment that Caranthir was _not_ going to look at, even as he found his disobedient tongue asking, “What in particular has your attention this eve?”  
  
“Human courtship, especially when compared to our own,” Amrod answered, and Caranthir immediately wished that he had said nothing.  
  
“It is a most baffling process,” Amras commented. “In some ways, that is.”  
  
“And yet, in other ways, it is much as our own,” Amrod continued his twin's thought.  
  
Caranthir saw a glint of _knowing_ in their eyes, and he distantly wondered if they had been speaking to Maglor. Or, a voice inside of him whispered, perhaps it was simply _he_ who was transparent with his intentions. The twins already needed few clues to know the innermost workings of any being, and he, more so than most, was an open book to them, even when he thought his pages to be closed.  
  
“For the most part, fathers arrange matches for their children – both to strategically bind families together, and to negotiate the bride-prices and dowry for their daughters,” Amrod explained, making room so that Caranthir could look down at the scroll they poured over.  
  
“The majority of their matches are arranged this way,” Amras said. “With the violence of the land they left behind, such measures were once prudent - ”  
  
“ - though Finrod said that these traditions wane all the more so with every passing generation.”  
  
He was not going to look, Caranthir told himself. It was pointless, and it was the _opposite_ of not thinking about _her_ . . . and yet, he found his traitorous eyes looking down. _Down_ , and -  
  
Caranthir glanced, seeing the basic parameters for seeking a woman's hand. If the match was not decided outright between parents, a suitor was still required to ask their lady's father or eldest brother for her hand. For a first marriage, male consent was an absolute requirement, but if a widow sought to remarry, her family could only object up to three suitors, and then the fourth one could not be contested . . . on and on the laws went as such. He felt his jaw set as he then understood the shackles most women were bound with when it came to seeking their mate, even when Finrod's footnotes said that the bride's opinion was most often consulted when her family made her match - as a vengeful or opposed wife was said to be a bad omen for the future of the marriage. Even so . . . the laws sat oddly within his mind, and he could not push his disquiet away.  
  
He further blanched when he noticed the provisions made for having a second or third wife _at once_ , along with the few laws there were protecting concubines and bed slaves. His eyes lingered over the odd translation, seeing where Finrod had to come up with new words for the foreign terms – for, beforehand, there would not have been a thought for such a thing even existing. There had been such an uproar when Finwë 'dishonored' his dead wife by taking Indis as his bride – he could not even imagine the want for more than one woman at once, and to have a woman kept only for the desires of the flesh . . . He felt his stomach turn at the thought, truly recognizing it as something foreign.  
  
“Finrod says that these practices occur east of the mountains, for the most part,” Amrod explained, easily understanding the dark cast of his eyes.  
  
“With the first generations who settled in Beleriand, these laws were needed – as there were such households who crossed over from Hildórien, where Morgoth's hand touched the Secondborn in all things. There are only a minority remaining who observe these practices now,” Amras shrugged, and yet, there was a hard note to his voice as he said so.  
  
“Apparently,” Amrod commented dryly, “with their few years, Men feel the primal urge to mate and bear offspring quite acutely . . . so much so that some are not satisfied by the bonds of marriage – before or after pledging their troth, it would seem.”  
  
Distantly, he remembered Haleth saying much the same. There were couples amongst Mankind who truly loved each other, and were faithful to that love. Yet . . . during his time in Estolad, he had encountered his fair share of amorous couples trying to find a secluded place to express their affections, and had been exposed to more than one woman confident of her ability to ensnare his attention in a romantic sense. There was ever some gossip to be heard about the latest scandalous affair, or some marriage was being arranged just as the birth of another child was celebrated – for such were the ephemeral days of mankind.  
  
Even so, he noticed the further laws binding promiscuity, with laws of vengeance being set upon a bride's male family should her spouse be unfaithful outside of his legally kept women . . . Illegitimate children were wholly the responsibility of the woman's family if they went unacknowledged by her husband, while acknowledged bastards were only rewarded limited compensation from the husband's family . . . on and on the more unsavory aspects of the lives of Men were laid out in clean, elegant lines. To think that somewhere, _someone_ lived through the exact same scenarios that were laid out before him . . . he swallowed, and tried to push the thought away.  
  
Amras slowly turned the scroll to reveal more of the parchment, for which Caranthir was grateful. For their few years, there were many tangled webs for Mankind to sort through . . . many indeed.  
  
Caranthir was more interested to see Finrod's observations about human courtship; where he explained the need for chaperones, and noted acceptable conduct and situations between a husband and wife-to-be. Finrod even had a few tales that Bëor related from his own memories, which Caranthir found himself smiling softly to read. Even without the benefit of a fey bond, Bëor truly loved the woman he married; there was still a _knowing_ about his choice that was no less certain than bonding with another soul to soul. The One would not have had it otherwise – even with Morgoth's later machinations against His fair creation, he could not help but think.  
  
And yet . . . “What a guessing game these mortals play,” Amrod mused – his thoughts closely aligning with Caranthir's own.  
  
Amras said nothing, but his pale eyes were very bright when he glanced at Caranthir.  
  
“They give rings once their mate is chosen - ” Amrod said after turning the scroll again.  
  
“ - as a physical sign of their bond to others,” Amras carried on.  
  
“Yet, they do not wear their marriage bands on the first finger of the right hand, as we do,” Amras continued.  
  
“Thus,” Amrod explained, “when you see a ring on the fourth finger of the left hand, it signifies a married man or woman.”  
  
Caranthir looked the scroll over once more, and with a grimace, he found himself realizing just how abrupt his actions must have seemed to Haleth. While he had months to consider his heart and decide his path, he had simply blurted out his feelings in a moment of fey-anger and faerie-passion. Then, worst of all, he had assaulted her very _human_ mind with the full weight of his elvish soul in his effort to make her understand his sincerity and the depth of his emotions. It had been so easy to assume that she would simply _understand_ , and make her decision based on that alone. And now . . .  
  
. . . he had so thoroughly botched his chance of presenting himself as an acceptable suitor, and that was before _everything_ else that stood in their way. The knowledge sat as a stone in his mind.  
  
She deserved to be courted, he thought then, a pang passing through him for everything she had already sacrificed in her life for the sake of leading her people. She deserved to be wooed . . .  
  
“The forge-master would be done with his work for the day, would he not?” Caranthir asked, struggling to keep his voice easy, free of infliction and tone. Even still, the twins looked up as one. Amras swallowed away a smile. Amrod made the same motion, and the mirrored gesture hit him twice over.  
  
“I believe so,” Amras answered.  
  
“If he is not, he shall be done soon,” Amrod said.  
  
“We can order any apprentices working through the evening away, if you wish for privacy,” Amras offered.  
  
“No,” Caranthir was quick to shake his head. “I have no need of that. I was simply . . . wondering,” he finished lamely. His last word was flat, inadequate to his own ears.  
  
“Ah,” Amrod said. When he blinked, Amras did as well.  
  
“Then, we do wish your . . . _wondering_ the best,” Amras shook his head. He rolled the scroll, just as Amrod picked up its case in order to put it neatly away once more.  
  
Caranthir poured himself another glass of wine, but found that he could not settle himself by the fire again. He had too much to decide now, too much to accomplish, and that would not be done sitting down.  
  
Tapping his left hand thoughtfully against the leaves of parchment, he quickly finished his glass, and then excused himself. He stopped on the other side of the door in order to run a flustered hand through his hair, wondering where he would even begin . . .  
  
A moment passed, and then he heard:  
  
“Do you think he is hopeless?” Amrod asked his twin in a low voice.  
  
“I think that he may have been,” Amras answered honestly. “Imagine! Just burdening the poor girl like that, and then running off without a word. Amil would have boxed his ears for being so uncouth, were she here to do so.”  
  
Amrod snorted. “I did not speak as to that – though what you say is true.” He was quiet for a heartbeat, with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the dull dance of the rain sounding as he gathered his thoughts. “I meant to speak of this mortal child's remaining days . . . few as they remain to her.”  
  
“We are all with ephemeral days upon this land, are we not? Man, Elf, Dwarf – in some ways, Morgoth grants equal lifetimes to us all,” Amrod philosophized. “Better you burn brightly in the time you have, rather than settling for a life of tepid warmth. No . . . I wish him the best for his choice, and applaud it.”  
  
Caranthir felt a low feeling of warmth - of comfort – fill his spirit, and he then knew that the twins were aware of his presence. They _knew_ , and in their own way they had given him their blessing. He let their presence burn brightly, fortifying his fëa, before exhaling with what remained of their light. He was aware that he was smiling stupidly, but he was quite unable to keep himself from doing so.  
  
He must have lingered for too long, for, a moment later, he heard: “You dawdle, brother. Do you not have a ring to forge?  
  
“Do you wish for us to aid you in composing poetry, too, Carnistir?” Amras asked, speaking so as to be clearly heard through the doors.  
  
“Or, perhaps,” Amrod reasoned thoughtfully, “we could ask _Finrod_ for his aid with wooing your maiden.”  
  
“Indeed,” Amras agreed, “his _experience_ with the Atani should not fall to disuse.”  
  
Caranthir rolled his eyes, and thumped the door once to show his answer to _that_. Their laughter ghosted against his mind as he turned away from them, ready to begin with the night.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
 **Madly**  
  
In short, this whole affair was madness.  
  
. . . complete and utter _madness_.  
  
Haleth stayed behind long after Caranthir left. At first, she had stood still, as if the slightest movement would awaken her from the queer dream Irmo had trapped her in. After a long while, she turned to pacing, suddenly uneasy with her bones when she realized that this was no dream, rather . . .  
  
When the shadows thrown from the plow blades, and the dull gleam of the scythes became too much for her, she held her head up and left the shed with as much dignity as she could muster. The sun was setting by that time, and few looked her way as she walked back to her dwelling, her thoughts sounding as baying hounds within her suddenly aching head.  
  
That night, she slept but little; and gave up on finding her rest with the dawn. She rose, feeling little refreshed when the long hours of the day waited before her like a gaping maw. Rather than burrowing back underneath her blankets again, she squared her shoulders and decided to meet the day head on, no matter what came of it.  
  
Truth be told, she was not sure what she wanted of Caranthir that day. A small part of her expected to see him waiting for her, his eyes full with that same bright, _hopeful_ look from the day before; while another part of her expected him to avoid her, to give her time to think this through in full. When he was nowhere to be seen, she was not sure if she was more relieved or disappointed for him being so. The latter emotion she quickly stomped down, for that did not bode well for her _at all_ , not when she needed a clear mind to think her situation through . . . a _very_ clear mind, at that.  
  
Her thoughts were still running in circles when she found Taemes underneath the low awning stretching from the back of her kitchen. Her good-sister was patiently churning butter in a wooden barrel, while inside, the rising aroma of baking bread was a warm, welcoming scent on the morning air.  
  
Taemes smiled in welcome, before reaching up to push a wayward strand of dark hair back behind her ear. The air was already warm and humid, and the dawning sky overhead was grey and overcast. The heat would later give way to storms, she knew.  
  
“You two must have had quite the row,” Taemes commented by way of a greeting. “Your elf left without saying a word this morning.”  
  
Haleth fought the urge she had to sigh, both relief and disappointment filling her as one. He had said that he did not want to pressure her, that he wanted to give her time to think, and yet . . .  
  
“Ah,” was all she said in reply. She leaned against one of the wooden posts, and felt her face settle into a hard expression, heavy with thought.  
  
Carefully, Taemes watched her. “This was no mere quarrel,” she at last commented. “This was something different. Something more.”  
  
Haleth watched the steady up and down motion of the churning wand, and felt her words gather on her tongue. At first, she did not want to speak of them. She wanted to keep them to herself, to hold them inside until they disappeared, and yet -  
  
“He loves me,” Haleth blurted. Against her control, the words spilled out, dropping like heavy stones into deep water. “Only . . . he did not exactly _say so_ . . . not in so many words. He did not have to, instead . . .”  
  
She remembered what she had seen in his mind, and felt unsteady on her feet. _Love_ was not the word to describe the _everything_ she felt spill over from his soul. Even the ever growing attraction she knew for him – _love_ , even when she had been determined to never define it as such – was a light, flimsy thing when compared to what she had experienced inside his soul.  
  
“ _My spirit knows its match,”_ he had said, his voice so painfully raw to her ears. _“My spirit knows – has known – and . . . it hurts to ignore that call. It is as a physical pain, and I could bear it no more.”_  
  
She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of what she should say – of what she _could_ say in order to explain what she had felt . . . what he had offered her. She did not understand how she could feel both so _awful_ , and yet so _full_ with the enormity of what was for the taking before her.  
  
And yet, Taemes merely sighed, as if she were not surprised in the slightest. “I honestly expected to have this conversation sooner,” she said, pausing from her task. Her expression was troubled, and her dark eyes were full with her concern. “Truth be told, I half thought that you were lovers already. There is . . . _something_ about you both, and I assumed . . .” she faltered, losing her words before she spoke them.  
  
Haleth shook her head. “It is not that simple,” she said, wondering how to explain the differences between their races. “His kind . . . they do not take partners for such dalliances as we may. No, they choose one mate for their immortal lifetimes, and they are bound soul to soul to that being, through death and after . . . It is physically impossible for them to separate a lover from a spouse, and he . . . he wants that spouse to be _me_.”  
  
 _Your soul binds itself to a marriage mate once, and only once. Even if the body may die, the soul never dies, and that bond would still remain between spirits, no matter their sundering . . . If my wife would ever leave this world before me, I would wait to join her again – either for finding her with my own death, or by waiting for her to walk alive from Námo's keeping with her rebirth._  
  
Taemes' eyes widened. She frowned, as if unable to comprehend what she heard. Haleth understood her confusion – for she had felt it herself before understanding truly sank in. Their neighbors were not merely fey in look, the Firstborn truly were something _else;_ a people apart from Mankind, even when their species were kindred in many other ways. She did not know how to explain it - for with that mere _glimpse_ inside his mind, she could still feel the earth around her as she could not before. She could feel the ripeness of the fields, how they prepared to welcome the harvest; she could feel the storms gathering overhead, how the clouds gulped in thunder as the rain prepared to greet the thirsty roots below. She knew how the stars danced, how the trees stretched, how the ground breathed . . . The Eldar were truly _of_ Arda, as much as Arda was apart of _them_. She had not understood before . . . not completely, but oh, how she did now.  
  
Only, she did not know how to put such an understanding into words. She doubted she ever would.  
  
“He will never be able to share this with another,” she found the words tumbling from her mouth. In their wake, she felt a wretched, guilty feeling for even daring to wish this of him. “If he offered me anything less – a few years as my paramour, perhaps, stealing what little we could have together . . . I think that I would be strong enough to accept that, knowing that I would eventually have to give him up. But this . . . this is forever for him. This is eternal. This is _everything_.”  
  
 _“I have lived more in these months than I have in centuries,”_ this he had sworn with such certainty, such belief. And yet . . . _“Someday, that shall be my burden to bear, and not yours.”_  
  
It was not that simple, though . . . it could not be.  
  
“He is a fool,” Haleth snorted derisively. It was easier to know irritation, to choose a sharp emotion over the giddy, _breathless_ feeling she had tried to swallow away since he first kissed her. “He hopes for a half life spent working around my duties, around the foolish prejudices of my people, for the little he would gain in return. I cannot take his name, I cannot build a home with him – not without giving up all that I have fought for. For what would I do? Leave my people in _Hathor's_ hands? Leave them so that men like _Mundor_ can find the weakness they have long been searching for? No . . . I cannot. I cannot share _his_ life, but he can shadow mine for as long as he can before I leave him alone for the rest of his days _– alone_ in a way that I cannot even begin to comprehend. I do not even think that he can – elsewise, he would have thought this through better.”  
  
It was an unfulfilling existence he was so willing to chain himself to. A _curse_ she had called it, and yet -  
  
 _“ - curse?”_ he had smiled in disbelief over the word, his expression so _very_ fey. _“I have known dark fates inflicted both by my own sins and foretold by the Valar themselves. If this is to be a curse, then sweet is my doom indeed!”_  
  
She felt sick with the thought, with the yawning idea of _forever_ stretching out before them. The knowledge that she would condemn him to that, that she would _allow_ him to shackle himself . . . it was a gaping chasm between them, one that she was not sure she could cross. This was a weight she could not bear to see him heap on his shoulders, no matter how much he claimed that he was strong enough for that burden.  
  
“And children!” Haleth exclaimed as the thought struck her. “Never mind that I will soon be too old to give him a child . . . what would become of a child born to both Elves and Men? Would a child have my mortal years, or his eternity? Or,” here she gave a sharp laugh, “I know! They can simply _choose_ which fate they prefer. Oh yes, because _that_ is not a tangled web just _waiting_ to ensnare some unfortunate soul, somewhere down the line.”  
  
Even as she spoke, she felt a piercing sort of pang – imagining a little girl with his storm-grey eyes and her curling brown hair . . . or a boy with his father's pointed ears and her freckles. Longing filled her, thick and full, and when next she blinked, her eyes were burning. He would say that he did not want children, arguing that their fight against Morgoth and his own Oath made caring for a little one all but impossible . . . but she had seen inside his mind. She had seen his countless memories of his vast and bustling family. He would speak one way, but she knew that he had once felt a true contentment as a river-stone amongst the currents of his household. And she . . . she would not be able to give him that.  
  
She kicked at the dirt beneath her feet, hating the dichotomy of her emotions. The back of her throat was tight, and her stomach turned sickly in time with her thoughts. She looked, and saw that Taemes was simply watching – listening – and she was grateful for that.  
  
“I am thirty-four years old. Come the winter, that number will only grow,” Haleth whispered. “I would be considered an old bride by _our_ standards. I have already left my youth behind, and the years I have left to give . . .”  
  
There was not one mouth amongst her own people that would call her a beauty. But _he had_ , she remembered with a bittersweet ache. _He_ had looked on her as if she were something unique, something precious to behold - and he had done so for more than the strength of her arms, for more than the blade of her mouth. In that moment, she too had believed herself to be so when faced with his sincerity.  
  
“You speak as if you already have one foot in the grave,” Taemes made a disapproving noise. “And I am not much younger than you, so mind your tongue.”  
  
Haleth frowned, frustrated. “That is not what I mean to say, and you know it,” she gave a sharp sigh. “I mean to say that soon . . . be it twenty years from now, or thirty . . . I will grow older, and I shall eventually _look_ so. I am not vain, you know that of me, but I have pride . . . too much pride, perhaps. I _will not_ let him see me grow old and wither away. His time with me will be even shorter than he thinks.”  
  
She felt a pang for thinking so. She would be no sick and weakening thing to hang on his arm while he was still full of the fire of the West. She would be no winter-touched hag, burdened by the weight of her years while he still walked lightly with the grace of the Fair Folk. She did not understand what he saw in her _now_ , and to watch his eyes dim with regret _then_ . . . she did not think she would be able bear it. She knew that she would not stay long enough to give such a thought time to seed and take root in his mind. No matter how much he would claim otherwise, she would not be able to stand the _lie_ when it came.  
  
Taemes was silent for a long moment. “He has a pride and vanity to match your own. In some ways, he exceeds it,” she finally said. “It is something to consider before taking a lover. A husband . . . a mate?” she faltered, clearly unsure of how to define what that would have together. By the laws of the Elves, they would be married, even if not by the standards of Men, and yet . . .  
  
“He is not without his flaws,” Haleth acknowledged after a long moment, thinking of his black moods and his quick way of surrendering to his temper - and that was without her remembering his dreadful Oath and the blood of Alqualondë on his hands. “Many of his flaws are things you could also say of me,” she rolled her shoulders. “And yet . . . I do not know how to say this . . .” she once again thought about her glimpse inside his mind. She thought about how he saw her, about how she looked through his eyes . . . He had been so bright against her senses, so very _bright_ . . . bright enough that she had not been sure how to hold on to what he offered her.  
  
 _“A shadow of what a true bond would be,”_ he had explained in the simplest way he knew how. _“And the reason why we find it impossible to bind ourselves twice over. For how could I even look at another after sharing this with the one whom my spirit chooses?”_  
  
“When I say they bond soul to soul, I was not speaking as a skald,” Haleth chose her words carefully. “Their minds are completely open to one another.” She tapped the side of her temple to better illustrate her words. “I could see within his mind for a moment . . . I could see _everything_ \- the good and the bad and the in-between. A true bond would be even _more_ than that, and that thought is an overwhelming one.”  
  
She had to sit down after saying so. She took an uneasy stride to where a bench was pushed against the longhouse, and plopped down ungracefully. This had been an easier malady to bear when she thought that it was only her own heart she stood to risk by growing so close to him. He had been a deliciously forbidden thought, a wonderfully tantalizing dream; and she had taken each stolen moment of friendship she could, content that would someday be enough for her. What she felt was violent and wonderfully tempestuous, but she had thought to be safe in the eye of that storm. Now she was pushed out into the gales, and given the offer to calm that storm completely, or to _embrace_ it . . .  
  
Almost immediately, she felt nauseous again. She hunched over in her seat, waiting for the world to cease its swimming about her. A moment later, Taemes wiped her hands on her apron, and came to sit by her side. She felt her hand on her shoulder, soothingly rubbing circles – as if she were a love-sick child, and not Haleth the Hunter, daughter of Haldad the Great and Chieftess of the Haladin. Shakily, she breathed in deep, hating the traitorous reactions of her body, of her _heart_.  
  
“This would be so much easier if I did not care for him,” she confessed. “I could simply take what he offered, enjoy the few years we could have together, and then leave him to carry on after my death as he claims he can. But I do . . . I _do_ care for him, so much that it _hurts_.” She pressed her hand to her chest, and felt where her heart thundered.  
  
“I feel _beautiful_ when I am with him,” the words were small as they left her mouth. They were a woman's words, but she could think of no greater truth than they. “I feel _soft . . ._ soft as I have never once felt in my life. I feel _cherished_ when I am with him. And yet . . . I do not feel weak for being so. I feel shielded – protected.” For she had seen that too in his mind – his awe for her tenacity and his wonderment for her every fierce line of spirit. What her own people would call unnatural and unwomanly, he simply saw as _her_ , and loved her for it. What she had once despaired for ever finding in the eyes of a mortal husband, she now found in the most unexpected of places . . . and yet, the cruel ways of fate now conspired against her reaching out and taking what happiness she could. It was not fair, she could not help but think. It was not _right_.  
  
And yet . . . when had this world ever been right and fair? To him? To her and her people? To any one soul living upon this marred land?  
  
She sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slow. She tried to pull herself together once more.  
  
“I do not know what to do,” she admitted simply. For that was the honest truth of the matter. She held up her head, and looked around the sleepy village as it awakened for the day, trying to force her mind back to the sharp focus it usually bore.  
  
“To me, it sounds as if you know exactly what you want,” Taemes said carefully, her own opinions and warnings pushed aside now that they were of little use.  
  
Haleth snorted. “What I _want_ , and what I _must do_ are two different things entirely,” she said disdainfully.  
  
“Really?” Taemes raised a dark brow. “For your choice as you described it to me was only a question of bravery - both yours, and his own." She faltered for a moment, and her eyes took on a shadow. "All I will say is this: if I knew when I married your brother that I would only have those few years with him . . . it would not have stopped me. Knowing that I would spend the majority of my life without him . . . it would not have slowed my stride. Instead, I thank the One for the gift of those years, and hold his memory as cherished within my mind. I do not have the endless years of your elf, but I . . . I think that I can start to understand what he feels.”  
  
"And yet," Haleth whispered, "It is different."  
  
"Oh?" Taemes was not convinced. "Answer me this, then: if his choice was put to _you_ . . . Would it be so different then?" she turned the tables on her, and watched as she swallowed against the question, caring not for its shape.  
  
Her hand was heavy on her shoulder for a moment more, and then she stood. “Now, would you like to give me a hand?” Taemes asked, looking down at the newly churned butter. “This has been out in the heat for too long, and I do not want my efforts to sour.”  
  
Haleth nodded, and wiped at her eyes, grateful for the task – any task, really. She hardened her thoughts as she stood, resigned to think about them no more until later. Then, she went about the chores of the day.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
 **Deeply**  
  
In the end, Caranthir stayed away for a sennight.  
  
Meanwhile, Haleth had seven days to convince her heart of the rightness of her decision; seven days in which she thought to reach a sort of equilibrium within herself. It was simple, really. There was only one choice she could possibly make, and she would make it. Once that was decided, she simply clamped down on her heart; she made her feelings stone, her certainty a river. She would not be swayed.  
  
Of course, such a thing was easy to decide while he was parted from her and she from him. When he returned, such a decision was more difficult to maintain in its entirety.  
  
She watched him ride in through the gates, and suddenly, it was all she could do to keep her eyes from focusing on him. While before she could simply stand back and appreciate his fey beauty from afar, it was different now. It was as if each feature was arranged for her to look on and admire – as if the One created him for her and her alone – and she found that her eyes had a nearly possessive claim in her stare, unable as she was to look away. The knowledge that she no longer had to push her feelings aside, that he would welcome her appreciation - her touch, even – did not help things in the slightest, and she made fists of her hands so as to keep them in their place.  
  
Beforehand, she could simply acknowledge his lithe sort of grace, but now she was filled with a charged sort of _awareness_ as he swung down from his horse with an easy motion. There was a thinly leashed power in his every movement, and she watched him with a nearly covetous gaze, remembering the strength in his body when he held her up against the wall and kissed her, and _sweet Eru_ , but she had made a _decision_. She was going to abide by it.  
  
The worst part about it all was that Caranthir _knew_. His damned eyes were _glittering_ when he leaned down to kiss her hand in greeting, lingering until she snatched her hand back from him as if burned. She could _feel_ his amusement brush against her senses – such a novelty that she first had to ponder over what she felt, before realizing that such a knowing came from _him_. It was as if the one time he had touched her mind, he had done so with such a force that a part of him still lingered, even after he pulled away. Without even knowing what she was doing, she felt a wave of coldness fill her, and with a note of satisfaction, she saw that he winced – for this _know_ _ing_ went both ways, and he could sense the abstract shape of her emotions the same as she could feel his own.  
  
Even with that knowledge, her distracted eyes noticed the way the sleek mass of his hair slipped over his shoulder when he straightened once more. Politely, he asked how Estolad had fared during his time away, and she was a heartbeat slow to answer as she remembered what it had felt like to sink both hands in his hair, and -  
  
He had not smiled, but she could _feel_ his satisfaction for the heat that filled her at the memory. Both angry and frustrated with herself, she turned away after their greetings were exchanged, her cheeks aflame for her lack of control. Taemes fell into step next to her as she left, and the other woman's silent support was as much a wound as it was a balm.  
  
Haleth expected him to find her not soon after, and continue the conversation they had started in the tool-shed. But, he did not seek her outside of public gatherings with others, and she was slow to find him alone in order to tell him what needed to be said. She knew that her delaying was cowardly, but she could not seem to find the needed strength within herself.  
  
And then . . . the most unusual things started to occur.  
  
It all began when she went to saddle the red roan she was breaking in from their first fold of yearlings. She went to grab her tack, and was surprised when her customary saddle was replaced by a different one. At first, she thought a mistake had been made – for this was new leather, exquisitely crafted and tooled. It was expensive too, she could not help but think as she took in the quality of the tan leather and the intricacy of the designs that were set into it. And yet, it did not take her long to recognize the elvish refrains in the design, and it most certainly did not take her long to notice Caranthir's distinct hand. He did not have this commissioned for her, rather, she suspected he had a hand in its creation.  
  
She was not sure whether or not she was flattered or annoyed by the gift, and she huffed as she went to grab another saddle – wanting something lighter for the green horse's back in either case. And yet, when she went to where the saddle-blankets were kept, she noticed a set of beautifully embroidered blankets in colours of copper and cream and hunter-green – which would be striking against the roan coat of the filly she was growing all the more attached to. She reached out to finger the elegant tassels, and trailed her touch over the embroidery of hunting dogs and stags set along the borders. A lot of thought and effort had gone into these pieces, and she felt her eyes linger, even when she would have wished for them not to.  
  
Haleth left the stables after that, unsure of what to think – or what to feel.  
  
The odd succession of gifts continued. While any other woman would be courted with fine jewelry and fresh flowers, she found other things left for her – a new quiver filled with perfectly crafted arrows, and an elegant longbow to replace her father's antique she had long been using. She found a handwritten book of lays, penned by someone named Elemmírë, and remembered that she had once shared her fondness for such epic tales in a moment of weakness after one too many glasses of ale. She was as touched that he remembered as she was wondrous over the painstaking detail that had gone into compiling the leather-bound book. Most of the poems were in Quenya, and her reading would be long and slow as a result. But, she knew that she would enjoy the challenge as much as she would appreciate the heroics of the tales. A few of the poems were in Vanyarin and Telerin – languages whose shape she recognized, but knew next to nothing of. She would have to ask Caranthir to read them to her, she thought next, before clamping down on that idea, and shoving it aside – firmly.  
  
When she next found a small fiddle with an elegantly curved neck, an image of Nessa dancing amongst a field of flowers burned into its wooden face, she unexpectedly felt tears fill her eyes. Her father had played the fiddle, and many were the evening when she had fallen asleep with his music still singing in her ears. Even when they were under siege in Thargelion, Haldad had played during the long, cold nights - bolstering the spirits of their people, even as the Orcs mockingly raised their voices in discordant song right beyond, marring their attempts at false cheer. She knew how to play herself, but she had not done so since her father and brother were slain. Haldad's fiddle had not survived the destruction of their home, at that, and now . . .  
  
She played the instrument late into the night, softly and then with more confidence as her fingers remembered the old melodies. She resurrected the ghosts of her father and twin once more, grieving them as she had not been able to following their deaths. Mournfully, she wondered what decision her father would have encouraged her to make, had he still been alive to do so . . . and yet, had _Haldad_ lived, had _Haldar_ lived, she would have known an even greater urge to leave everything behind and claim what she could with Caranthir. Her people would be safe, they would be provided for, and she could just be _herself_ , and selfishly put her own happiness first.  
  
Yet, that thought was a what-if, having little place in the here and now. She pushed her memories aside with the dawn, and thought about them no more . . . even when she just _knew_ what path her father would have encouraged her to take.  
  
And so, it continued as such between them. He carefully did not mention what he had proposed before he left, and she could not find the words within herself to raise the subject. The odd string of gifts continued, and yet, it was not until she found Caranthir and Haldan behind the newly built fulling mill, where the great wooden wheel dipped into the fast current of the river, that she felt the true weight of her situation hit her. The Elf-lord was kneeling in front of her nephew, looking very seriously into the youth's eyes, as if he were already a man bearded and grown. She felt her chest twist when she realized what she was seeing, and for a moment it hurt to breathe.  
  
“You make her happy. She smiles when she is with you,” the boy answered simply. Haldan had always been beyond his years, with the tribulations of her people placing the most weight on their youngest ones – few as they survived. “If you continue to do so, you have my blessing.”  
  
As best he could while still kneeling, Caranthir bowed very solemnly, and gave his formal vow to the child. Haleth felt a piercing sort of sensation slip between her ribs before she turned away, not wanting to be seen. She felt her eyes burn as she walked back the way she had come, her decision – her sensible, _logical_ decision – teetering dangerously within her mind.  
  
And yet, it was not until almost a week later that things came to a boiling point.  
  
Haleth returned home from a meeting with her council, having adjourned the session early on account of her aching head being unable to take another moment of their prattle – which was true enough, though she had phrased her ailment differently. The sun was setting above, painting the rolling fields and thatched rooftops in shades of burnt orange and yellow-gold. The smell of cooking fires filled the air, and children raced to and fro as they hurried home for the evening, their joyous voices seemingly welcoming the stars to come out above. Discreetly, she watched her people mill about her, hoping to catch _him_ waiting for her – as he often did, for he no longer sat in on their debates unless his insight was specifically called for. And yet, he was nowhere to be seen.  
  
She swallowed away the reflexive disappointment she felt, telling herself that she was foolish to look for him in the first place. She was only building herself up for an even greater hurt, she knew, and this was the loop her mind spun through when she arrived home to see _him_ -  
  
\- apparently hiding a small box in what appeared to be a bouquet of blue aster and purple dragon's mouth.  
  
Haleth felt a frown touch her mouth, and she let the door close behind her with more force than she normally would have, alerting him to her presence.  
  
“What are you doing?” she asked with a calmness she did not feel.  
  
Caranthir started at her arrival, as if he were a child caught doing something he ought not. Normally, the likeness would have made her smile. Now, she simply watched him, a note of weariness piercing her now that their inevitable conversation had finally come upon them.  
  
Letting her question go unanswered, she walked over to him, glancing down at the flowers ( _love . . . patience . . . long-lasting impressions_ , their smiling faces said – never mind that she once mentioned the dragon's mouth to be her favourite, pointing out where it grew down by the riverside), before letting her gaze linger on the box. It was a jewelry box, she guessed; the first he had gifted to her.  
  
“Caranthir,” she said on a sigh, feeling her frustration – her resignation - bubble over as annoyance. “I am no blushing maid to be courted so – and you are most certainly no wide-eyed stable boy, sweet on the farmer's daughter. You know better, and this – all of this - has to stop.”  
  
She watched where his face shadowed, where he so clearly fought back a frown in reply to her frank tone of voice. “ _Tulkas' beard_ , woman,” he muttered under his breath, “I thought you would _want_ to be courted.”  
  
Even while she was determined to hold her ground, merely hearing him say so aloud caused a sweet sort of lurch in her stomach. Stubbornly, she forced that feeling down – _far down_.  
  
“I do not,” she proclaimed, but even she could hear how her words trembled. “And you should not want . . .” she swallowed, and had to find her words again.  
  
Like a hound catching the scent of a stag, he looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing at the tone of her voice. Instantly, she hardened her expression, hating her moment's lapse. “Is it so difficult for you to imagine that I _want_ to?” Caranthir asked, his voice gentle.  
  
She set her mouth, and narrowed her eyes. “I do not think you understand - ” she started in a hard voice.  
  
“ - I do not understand what?” Caranthir interrupted, challenging her. “That you are _mortal_? That, someday, you will _die_?” Though he said his words easily, she could _feel_ the ache that accompanied them. For a moment, she could not tell if it was his pain she felt, or her own.  
  
“That, amongst many other things,” Haleth would not be moved. “I am already far from the years of my youth - ”  
  
Caranthir frowned, and she could feel his bafflement. “You think yourself _old_?”  
  
She held her course, even in the face of his bemusement. “I am no longer a girl,” she tried to explain, flushing as she said so.  
  
“That is good,” Caranthir smiled – that sleek, _easy_ smile that normally caused heat to flush through her as it ruined her train of thought, “You are already much too young for me.”  
  
She huffed in frustration. “You are not taking this seriously,” she accused.  
  
“So, you are . . . _mature_ ,” Caranthir drew out the word with a raised brow. She felt her blood heat in reply.  
  
“I am _old_ ,” Haleth returned. She held up a hand before he could retort, and said, “And if you make _one_ more quip about the differences in our ages, I shall do something rash.”  
  
“I would say that you are _seasoned_ ,” Caranthir amended his earlier words, still infuriatingly unbothered.  
  
“I am _grumpy_ ,” she threw out her next flaw. “I am foul-tempered and quick to anger.”  
  
“You are _opinionated_ , I think you meant to say,” he brushed her critique away. “Which is for the better. I would overpower a more obliging personality than yours.”  
  
“You will never be put first in my life,” she hissed out sharply. She tried to make him understand; she tried to make him _see_. “I am Chieftess of the Haladin first and _Haleth the_ _woman_ second, and that . . . that is not fair to you, nor is it fair to any man. To bear though such a half-life in the few years you would have before _forever_ . . .”  
  
She found her eyes burning with merely saying the words. They crushed her, miserable truths that they were, and she did not understand how he could simply stand there and _smile_ at her like she was the most precious thing he had ever laid eyes on. She wished that he would look away, that he would _truly_ let her words sink in. Instead, he stepped closer to her, his eyes soft as he reached out to tip up her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.  
  
“You speak of what I already know, and know well,” he said simply. She then _hated_ the silky warmth of his voice; the heat she could feel roll off of his skin, even when there was a distance between their bodies. “And yet, in all of your words, I did not once hear you speak of _you_. You worry so for my needs, but what of your wants? What of _you_?”  
  
“What I _want_ ceased to matter a long time ago,” Haleth shook her head, trying to back away from him.  
  
“And yet, here I am now, asking _you_ ,” Caranthir countered, stepping closer to her, even as she tried to retreat. “Say that you do not love me, that you do not feel the same for me, and I will leave you in peace with every hope of happiness for your future. But if it is just these simple doubts and fears that hold you back . . . they will not be enough to sway me.”  
  
She stepped back from him, and this time, he did not try to follow her. She inhaled, filling her lungs with a fresh breath, before smoothing down the mused strands of her braid with an agitated gesture. She glanced at him, and found that he was still watching her with the low eyes of a hunting animal. He was not human in that moment, not even in look – he could not be, with the strange tilt of his head and the liquid sort of grace that dripped from his every movement. The sun had continued to set beyond, and the few candles he had lit before she arrived threw dancing colors of gold over the fair expanse of his skin and the deep shadow of his hair.  
  
She could not look at him; not for too long, not unless she wanted to forget every rational thought within her head. So, she glanced behind him. She made fists of her hands.  
  
“What were you trying to hide this time?” she asked, rather than answering him.  
  
She watched, and saw where a shade of pink touched his face – as if he was hesitant to share this last gift with her. Even so, he handed her the small box, and she could feel his trepidation and the sweet sort of hope that rose within him. She tried not to – dealing with her own emotions was hard enough as it was – but it was difficult for her to separate what was him and what was her in that moment. Her temples ached with the effort.  
  
When she opened the box, she saw an elegant, simple ring resting on a bed of blue velvet. Though she told herself not to, she stared down at the ring, awed when the strange metal shifted from a shade of silver to the warmest of golds. There were no other adornments to the ring, just two bands of the seemingly mystical ore, gracefully entwined, and yet, it was more beautiful to her than the greatest treasure amongst a dragon's horde.  
  
“Amongst my people, we give silver rings for engagements, and rings of gold once wed,” Caranthir explained. “I wanted to merge the two, and my father had a technique for catching light within metal and stone – though it worked better with gems, as this was the technique that eventually birthed the Silmarils. Sunlight and moonlight both do you see in this ring, though, perhaps, it is imperfect when compared to what he could have done.”  
  
Ignoring the small voice that told her not to, she reached down to touch the elegant band with a careful hand. And, as she did so, she caught a flash of thought from him -  
  
 _-_ _o_ _f a terribly beautiful man, with fire spilling from his eyes and skin and mouth, consuming everything before him. The eyes she saw through were a child's eyes; the air was thick with smoke around her/him, and she could feel her/his skin crawl as she/_ _he_ _only thought of how much she/he hated this place, and longed for the fresh air_ _beyond_ _._ _The forge gloves were ungainly in her/his hands, and the smith's hammer was as a leaden weight, failing to yield the wonders it produced at her/his father's barest coaxing._ _Yet, she/he stood_ _so very_ _still and let her/his father look down, his eyes_ _crinkling in a delicate disgust as_ _he said, “This is imperfect,_ _Morifinwë._ _Destroy this, and start a_ _gain.”_  
  
 _And she/he tried again and again and_ again _, and the horrible-breathtaking_ _light in the_ _father-creature's eyes only grew. “Imperfect,_ _once again,_ _” was all_ _Fëanor_ _would say, no displeasure or disappointment in his voice, only fact, and -_  
  
\- Haleth felt her lips draw back from her teeth with the glimpse, a sudden anger lighting her bones in reply to the memory. She inhaled sharply, and saw where Caranthir flushed when he realized what he had shared.  
  
“Yes, well,” he said, his expressive face reddening, “Perhaps I should have gone to Curvo for help. He was Atar's favourite for a reason, you know, and -”  
  
“No! No . . . it's perfect,” she interrupted him, unable to hear him say otherwise. “Truly it is.” She looked up, and saw where his smile was small, touched with a soft sort of pleasure.  
  
“I have one for myself, as well,” Caranthir continued, reaching into an inner pocked of his tunic to bring out a matching ring. “But I do not have to wear it in Estolad. I do not want for you to -”  
  
“You made one for yourself?” she interrupted, her voice small.  
  
“Well . . . yes,” he answered, confused by the sudden hitch to her voice. He peered at her, concerned. “Is that not the mortal custom?” he asked. His voice was careful, and she caught a flash of _leave it to Finrod to blur the facts_ stand out from his mind. She shook her head, finding her eyes burning in a tell-tale way.  
  
“No,” Haleth assured him. “It is not that . . . well, it is, in a sense. It is a human custom for _wives_ to wear a ring, it is true, but husbands do not typically do so. They do not need to show they are claimed by any other.”  
  
Caranthir blinked, as if the idea of such inequality was foreign to him. While her people had come far in so short a time, in some ways . . . but she swallowed that thought away, and met his eyes again.  
  
“I can think of no greater thing, than to show to all that I am bound to you,” Caranthir said simply. While a man could speak flowery words to win his suit, there was a plain truth in his words. For a moment, she found herself weak over the promise he implied. For a moment, she simply let herself _want_ , and found her heart full with the warmth of that truth.  
  
He continued, “I know that you may not wear your ring openly. But it is yours to do with what you will, even if -”  
  
Haleth interrupted him with a small laugh – a desperate, disbelieving sound. “Still you are so selfless with this arrangement!” she could not keep her befuddlement from her voice. “Any other man -” she started, but she found her words interrupted by his first finger touching her mouth, staying her words.  
  
“ - I am not any other man,” he whispered. He was very close to her then. With the great difference between their heights, he had to stoop in what looked to be an uncomfortable way, but she enjoyed the way she felt small in his shadow.  
  
“I know,” her words were soft in reply, and she knew that she spoke the truth. She could feel a low heat pulsate from him, and his thoughts felt hungry from where they reached out for her own, as if they were trying to find a way in. The aching tension that had long built between them seemed to fill her then – prompting her traitorous hands to reach up and rest on her shoulders, even as she moved her body closer to his, _closer . . ._ Then, this time, she was the one to kiss him – standing on the very tips of her toes and tugging him down so that she could reach him, and _sweet Eru beyond the void_ , but his mouth was soft and hot against her own, and _this was happening_ . . .  
  
Caranthir needed no more encouragement than that. She felt where one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, supporting her position, while his other hand rested at the small of her back, holding her tightly against him. Her hands moved from his shoulders to wrap around his neck, settling in the silky mass of his hair – knowing, _knowing_ where this was going, but unable to bring herself to remember her objections as he deepened the kiss between them. There was a beautiful sort of leashed tension between them as he slowly mapped her mouth and explored her body with his hands, as if he was confident that he had all the time in the world to do so. In the end, it was she who wanted more – who pressed against him, and whimpered into his mouth, all the while thinking _this man w_ _ill_ _be the death of_ _m_ _e._ Yet, in that moment, she could not bring herself to care.  
  
“This cannot end well. You know that as well as I,” she pulled back to whisper while she still had the voice to do so. She was not sure if she drew her hands down to his chest to push him away, or to steady herself, untrustworthy as her balance now was. Somewhere along the way, she had moved her ring onto her fourth finger, so that she wouldn't drop it while her hands had more important things to do. Now, the simple band was very bright upon her hand, shining brighter than the shadows.  
  
“And yet,” Caranthir's voice was a low, dark sound in reply. She could feel him speak alongside her pulse, more than she could hear him with her ears. “Until it ends . . .”  
  
They would take what little they could from each other, she finally surrendered. Now, she only hoped that it would be enough to sustain them both in the end.  
  
Yet, until then . . .  
  
She tugged him down to her once more, and resolved to think of nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Amrod and Amras** : Since I have more or less followed genealogies from the published _Silmarillion_ , I decided to use the earlier version of the twins' story, mainly so that I could have fun writing their bond in this chapter. You see, my reasons are purely selfish. ;)
> 
>  **Human Customs** : I modeled most of the laws of Men after early Norse and Germanic customs, as the Professor may have done, perhaps. According to my research, Most 'Viking' weddings were contracts for financial gain and ways to strengthen ties between families. Romance was rarely a prerequisite, and courtship was a little practiced custom - even though I have to assume that some matches were made after affection grew between a couple, rather than the other way around. Yet, many marital accounts are finished with a note saying 'and their marriage was good' - showing that familiarity/love grew between a couple. So, it wasn't that romance was dead, per say, so much as theirs was simply a harsh way of life upon an equally harsh land. Especially when compared to their Christian and Greek/Roman counterparts, these northern European women had a lot of power in other ways - they could divorce with financial recompense; claim inheritances; run their land in their husband's absences and after his death; and Shield-maidens were an honored and revered part of society. They did take their bride-prices (yes, plural :p) very seriously, though, which is more than apparent in the way Beren was so determined to honor Thingol's demands, rather than simply running away with Lúthien. His honor wouldn't have it any other way. 
> 
> **Wedding Rings** : The tradition of marriage bands goes all the way back to the Egyptians – who viewed their rings as symbols of eternity and gateways to their future. The Greeks put their bands on the fourth finger of their left hand, thinking that there was a vein in that finger that led straight to the heart. Yet, in these tales, only wedding rings for women were ever mentioned or discovered by historians. The tradition of men's wedding rings did not start until around WWII, when men were separated from their spouses for long periods of time, and wanted something to remember them by. I know, that little fun-fact floored me when I read it too! 
> 
> **A Note on Canon** : While I am most definitely expanding on canon, I have not exactly broken it, per say. ;) Haleth was born in FA 341, and Morgoth sent his Orcs to attack Thargelion in the spring of 375. In the summer/fall of 375, she led her people west to Estolad. There are conflicting dates about when she moved the majority of the Haladin from Estolad to the forests of Brethil , but the year I keep on coming back to is 390. So, she remained in Estolad for 15 years, during which I like to assume that she was reasonably happy with Caranthir. After that? Well, that is simply another part of this tale to come . . .


	61. "how the sea counts the years"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrían & Melian || Prompt: _Years_ , Free-write

Ever the more so with each passing day, silver ships were guided in to the harbors of Alqualondë.  
  
As often as she could, Celebrían would watch them from her window, she having taken a room high in Olwë's household for the express reason of staring down at the quays below. There were times when her great-grandfather (and great-great-uncle, to further tangle the family tree) would watch the busy harbor at her side, musing over the intricacies of ship-craft, and sharing light anecdotes about the Shipwright himself. Often were the times when she would let Olwë's words distract her, filling the long minutes of waiting with the warm sound of his voice. Other times, she was joined by her mother's parents, for they were called from their high seat in Tirion by the promise of the Sea, much as she herself was. Arafinwë's eyes were ever on the horizon, while Eärwen watched the waves as if she could read their secrets from the way they crested and foamed.  
  
Her uncle Finrod would sit with her at times, his feet propped up on the windowsill as he busied himself with whatever scroll held his attention for that day, or Amarië would bring her daughters and share her latest verses. Angrod did not much have the patience for sitting still, but he tried for her, and Eldalótë filled up the silence with the musical sound of her voice. More often than not, she was visited by her mother's Noldor kin, each soul seemingly wanting to claim 'but a moment of her time', and Olwë's halls were ever filled to the brim as a result. Sometimes, Celebrían wondered if her newfound family had a set schedule arranged, so as to not cross paths while they helped her bear through her waiting - and yet, that thought was a warmth as much as it was an exasperation.  
  
_Soon_ , the Sea seemed to promise on a mantra; _soon_ , the tide whispered as a lullaby. She held the vow of the ocean close to her heart, letting it warm her during the long hours of night. Someday, she would not have to look to the horizon, but to the now empty place at her side to find it full once more. Already, her wanting for that day was something she could taste on her tongue; it was a tangible thing she carried with her, no different than her breath and blood and bone.  
  
It was during one such day that she was reading by the window of her room. As ever, her eyes ghosted from the pages before her to the horizon beyond, when she saw a familiar form step off the gangplank. Slowly, he walked into the harbor, his eyes wide for the pearl and shell glory of Alqualondë stretching all around him. His was not the face she wanted most dearly to see - and something deep within told her that her now muted bond with her husband would flare back into being as soon as Elrond crossed the veil of the West - and yet, there was his telling head of dark brown hair, and the silver harp he held in hand . . .  
  
It took but moments for her to rush down to the docks, her eyes eager as she searched for the minstrel. She shielded her eyes from the orange light of the waning sun above, peering through the dozens of excited faces and joyous reunions to find the one she sought. She spun, seeking . . .  
  
“Lindir!” she exclaimed upon finding his face again. She had not the patience for him to regain his land-legs after so many days at sea, and her unexpected weight colliding with his own nearly toppled him. Even so, it took him less than a moment to return her embrace as understanding set in, his surprise turning to a wordless sound of joy in greeting. He stepped back a moment later, taking her in with smiling eyes, both awed and joyous all at once.  
  
Dutifully, Celebrían stood up tall underneath his stare, understanding what his eyes searched for. She held her arms open, letting him see her absent of any wound and unburdened by any black stain upon her spirit. She was no longer the waif-like woman who could hardly walk without aid, who could barely utter but two words together upon the day she sailed; all but crippled by nightmares and her ability to glimpse into the wraith-realm just beyond their own. As he stared, she felt pride ripple through her for the strides she had made to reach this point in her recovery.  
  
The minstrel's familiar face was as a balm; a piece of familiarity, a piece of _home_. For him to have sailed must have meant that the rest of her family was not far behind – for he would not have left his lord's service unless he was assured that he could just as soon reenter it. The Great Years were fast coming to a close, for good or for ill, she understood, and _soon_ she could expect all of her family to stand where Lindir did now.  
  
And yet, Lindir's smile did not hold for long. After the first, initial joy of seeing her whole and well passed, something about his eyes dimmed . . . they turned guarded. Almost instantly, Celebrían felt her blood run cold, unable to keep herself from imagining the worst. It was not a death he had to report, this she knew instinctively, yet, there were worse horrors to endure in Middle-earth than death alone – this was a lesson she learned well at the Dark Lord's hands, far underneath the cruel peaks of the Misty Mountains. After all her household had faced over the centuries . . . She faltered, unsure how to phrase the tenative questions gathering on the tip of her tongue.  
  
He could see the moment she understood, but rather than speaking, Lindir reached out to gently fold her hands over a letter. She looked down, and recognized her daughter's elegant script over the face of the parchment.  
  
Celebrían took the letter, arching a curious brow in question.  
  
“It will explain everything,” Lindir answered, first clearing his throat as if he could not find his voice. “My lady,” he added, respect deep in his voice as he bowed low at the waist.  
  
She forced herself to give a distracted smile in reply, and she may have promised to speak with him later, but she was not aware of much else as she made her way to a quiet place on the seashore. Here, the deep bands of color on the sandstone cliffs dove down to receive the blue kiss of the waves. She followed the sparkling white sands to a small cove, formed where the great formations of stone arched over a deep, calm pool, this place long being a favourite of hers whenever she felt the need to take a moment away from Olwë's court. Overhead, the sun continued to set as she undid the seal of the letter with shaking hands, anxiety and joy at war within her as her eager fingers met several pages of folded parchment, each bearing Arwen's gentle hand . . .  
  
Then, in silence, she read.  
  
She had to read the letter once . . . twice . . . and then a third time in order to make sure that she properly understood the words written therein.  
  
_I wanted no other to have to tell you this, and Adar already bears burden enough without having to be the one to impart these tidings . . ._  
  
_. . . love . . ._  
  
_. . . mortal man . . ._  
  
_. . ._ _choice . . ._  
  
_. . ._ _I make this_ _decision_ _for love, and_ _know only joy for doing so. In the end,_ _my only regret is not being able to say farewell_ _to you_ _in person._ _Rather,_ _I must_ _rely on such cold means as this . . ._  
  
_. . ._ _as always, I remain your most loving daughter . ._ _._  
  
At first, her initial instinct was to crush the letter in her hands. Only the stronger urge she had to protect, to cherish, the last words she would have from her daughter won out in the end. Carefully, she smoothed the pages down, touching the winding letters as if she could still feel the warmth of Arwen's hands upon the parchment. But the imagined sensation was a pale substitute, a cold replacement for reality; leaving Celebrían to stare in shock, disbelieving as the pitiless words sank in.  
  
After the first, almost crippling wave of pain, she knew a fierce rise of something fey and consuming within her - something that was Finwë's might, as much as it was Elwë's. That violent spark of flame and power, ever just sleeping within her blood, writhed as something living as it seemingly tried to consume her bones. She let the letter fall to the sand, her limbs trembling as a familiar silver light rose to touch her skin. Her fëa battered angrily against the surface of her hröa, as if seeking for a way to escape. In that moment, it was all she could do to keep it harnessed within.  
  
It was almost humorous, she mused darkly, how she had once thought Thingol proud and unfeeling for his dealings with his daughter and her mortal love. Who was _he_ to get in the way of such a bond, such a union of spirits? What _right_ did he have to hide the sun away from the earth? And yet, she now found herself wishing that her husband had done anything – _everything_ – more than he had done in order to prevent this union from ever taking place.  
  
_What would you have_ _Elrond_ _do? Lock her away in a tower?_ A voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother sounded in her mind. Ever was Galadriel her guiding force in life – and no matter how many centuries she spent growing in her own wisdom, her mother was the defining spark at the core of her. _Arwen has inherited both sides of this family's_ _more_ _stubborn_ _nature_ _, and she would_ _have_ _resent_ _ed_ _you_ _for daring to try_ _. She would_ _have_ _f_ _ou_ _nd a way,_ _had such constraints been placed upon her_ _. As Lúthien was the morning_ _star_ _, Arwen is the evening, and one's fate cannot be separated from the other._  
  
Yet, a Kingship for their daughter's hand? Elrond asked for nothing more than this . . . this _Aragorn_ was already due to claim as the last son of Númenor, as the rightful heir of Elros' once mighty line. Now . . .  
  
Aragorn would succeed, she knew with a numbing flash of certainty. Aragorn would succeed, and a new Age of the world would dawn underneath his rule. The dominion of Men would come, and her daughter would become Queen of that reunified people . . . A Queen of Men she would be, and then die she would as was the right and _gift_ of mankind. A _gift_ , the Wise called mortality and death, but oh, how _laughable_ that term was to her then.  
  
Celebrían felt a queasy sort of pain swim through her, dimming her rage in favor of a mother's urge to protect her child from any harm . . . for she knew that Arwen's choice would not be the natural choice Elros once made. Her choice would not even be the ease of old age and peacefully falling asleep in death that would come to Elladan if he were to choose what his heart already knew. If Elrohir too followed his twin, as he had long since promised to do . . . Celebrían flinched, but could not think of that just yet. To lose all three children to the Peredhil's choice . . . she could not begin to fathom it. Even though she had known of this risk when she and Elrond decided to have children, all of those centuries ago, she had never thought to mourn in this way - stupidly assuming that her children would choose endless days with nary a thought assigned to that choice. Yet, her greatest pain now came from knowing that Arwen's death would not be a natural death. Her daughter was elvish in her heart, fey down to her very bones, and she would have to forcibly push her last breath from her body and _will_ her spirit to join her husband's in mortal death. There would be no ease of passing for her, no shield from grief or relief at parting, and she . . .  
  
As a mother, the thought of such an ending horrified her. She felt nauseous at the very idea, and she leaned forward as her stomach heaved at the thought. She was suddenly hot and cold all at once, and the world seemed to spin around her; the roll of the sea merging sickly with the vastness of the blood-streaked sky above.  
  
And yet, a small voice was growing louder within her . . . her daughter loved, and was loved in return. There was no greater gift in life, than to find one's match in both soul and mind. If this choice was put to her . . . better would she prefer one lifetime spent in love, rather than an eternity known without it. As a wife, as a _woman_ , she understood her daughter's choice – and perhaps, in time, she would even know joy for Arwen doing so. Yet, in that moment, she was finding it difficult to keep a cool line of reason to her mind. She could not - not when everything within her screamed at her to _protect_ , to hold her child safe and sheltered from every harm.  
  
_And yet, who is to say that death is_ _a_ _worse_ _fate_ _than denying such a love?_ Once again, her innermost voice sounded like her mother. _Your daughter is wise; she would_ _not_ _have given up her immortality for_ _anyt_ _hing less than the love Eru intended for her to find as her soul's compliment and other half. To deny that . . ._ _would that not_ _even_ _be a crueler fate than death?_  
  
Celebrían breathed in deep, and let her breath out slow, desperately trying to control the wild spin of her thoughts as they circled this one undeniable truth. Eventually, the sun finished setting overhead, and the stars were long in the night sky before she was able to leave her spot upon the shore.  
  
She did not sleep that night, and upon the morning, a part of her distantly considered seeking Elwing's counsel - for there were few others who would be able to understand the pain she was currently enduring. And yet, Elwing the White had hardly been a mother to the son she was now sundered from, and her regrets and pains were quite different than what she was experiencing now. While Celebrían had found her own peace with Elrond's mother since coming to Aman, the events of the past day set her indignation prickling against her skin once more. No, not to Elwing she would turn, but maybe, she could . . .  
  
It had been many years since she last set foot within the gardens of Lórien. When she first reached the hallowed shores of Aman, she had spent nearly a year in the care of Estë, letting the mothering Vala recreate her tattered soul as her Maiar dutifully set about repairing the deep places of her mind. While Elrond had saved her from a certain death in repairing the harm done to her body – giving so much of his own fëa that Glorfindel and Mithrandir had to forcibly pull him away before he gave _everything –_ the fact remained that he had repaired what, perhaps, should have been left to the mercy of Námo to die in peace. She had been a tattered mess of ghostly pains and half-remembered torments, unable to tell the shadow-realm from the real world in which both her family and the light dwelt. Though it was the grotesque hands of Orcs who inflicted the blows upon her body, it was _Sauron's_ eyes of flame who shone from the eyes of the Orc-captain, his spirit manipulating his thrall from an untouchable distance away in Dol Guldur . . .  
  
This she knew without a doubt, for she remembered his eyes as _Annatar's_ eyes. She was unable to forget, even though she had been little more than a child when he first came in disguise to Ost-in-edhil. His eyes . . . his voice was much as she remembered it to be, as liquid as gold and as beautiful as the night while he casually asked for the location of the Three, over and over again . . . While she understood her torment to be for practical reasons in the Dark Lord's eyes, she _knew_ that Sauron must have delighted in his more personal vengeance against Galadriel (whom he had once bowed to, biding his time with a show of _deference_ until Celebrimbor wrested complete control of Ost-in-edhil from her parents), and his even more personal vengeance against Eärendil's son and Lúthien's heir - both of whom he _hated_ as he hated no other for the harms they had inflicted upon himself and Morgoth his lord in days gone by.  
  
Yet, through it all, she had willfully held onto her silence; no matter how deeply he dug into her mind, no matter how cleverly he thought to inflict his pains. She had even dared to toy with him in return, mocking him for his not yet having enough strength of spirit to tear the mind of a lowly _Elf_ apart to discover what he wanted to know – no matter that her mind had then been buoyed by her mother and husband, both reaching out to shelter her spirit and take whatever of her pains they could upon themselves, thus helping her to endure until help could arrive. Without them, she would not have lasted for as long as she had . . . not nearly.  
  
Even still . . . _My lord, y_ _ou are losing your touch_ _if you cannot force my mouth to speak, even with all of your arts,_ this she had dared to taunt. _T_ _ell me, was_ _Celebrimbor_ _the same as I in his silence, or did he laugh, as I now wish to_ _?_ _Tell me, what would Morgoth your master say if he could see the pitiful depths his servant has fallen to?_ On and on she had kept her mouth working. While much of her bravado had been forced, she had been desperate to regain some sort of handle over her situation, and she'd found it when staring defiantly into those terrible eyes of flame. That resulting, _awful_ assault upon her mind and body had been the final straw to her own well-being, and she would have given in to Námo's call had it not been for the timely intervention of her sons - who at last found her in her prison of stone. She could still remember the way Sauron had _laughed_ , even as his servants were slaughtered, his spirit lingering as a shroud until they found the light of day once more.  
  
Even now, the dull pain of memories crept over her as she walked through the peaceful grove of willow trees, listening to the nightingales sing far above her. Though Melian - the former Queen of Doriath, kinswoman to her father, and dearest of mentors to her mother - had originally been created to serve Irmo, she had aided Estë his wife upon seeing the identity of her latest patient. Celebrían's first memories of healing had been to hear Melian's voice whispering in her ear, sounding like twilight and birdsong in direct opposition to her remembered snarls of Black Speech and the silky lilt of Sauron's voice. Her mind had clung to the mothering warmth and calm serenity that Melian filled her spirit with, and the Maia had been dear to her ever since.  
  
Here, in her home of homes, Melian did not always keep to a physical form; doing so only when Thingol was with her, her husband having returned from the Halls near to the time of her own arrival. His and Melian's home had been as dear to her as her own mother's vast and . . . extended family, so much so that she now cherished the bonds she had forged in Aman as much as she mourned those she had known in Ennor beyond.  
  
Normally, she would have hummed along with the nightingales, happy to linger in the glade until Melian appeared to her. Yet, she had no ability for song within her. Instead, she sat beside the deep green pool that had been her favourite spot during her initial recovery, breaking off a long stem of grass and winding it absently between her fingers as she waited.  
  
Soon enough, Melian's step was soft upon the dew-damp grass, alerting Celebrían to her presence by reaching out to softly touch her shoulder. “Dear child, what is it that weighs upon you with such sorrow?”  
  
Celebrían went to stand in greeting, but was kept to her place as Melian gracefully came to sit beside her. In her form of flesh, she was an impossibly beautiful woman, with stars in the silver of her eyes and night itself in the inky blackness of her hair. It was easy to imagine Lúthien's ethereal beauty when faced with her own - a likeness that was so much like her _daughter's_ that . . .  
  
The first tear that fell was as unleashing a floodgate of such tears. She was unable to find her voice in answer, and Melian instead reached over to gather her in her arms, alarm and worry touching the graceful line of her brow. Celebrían tried to gather herself - so that she could speak, so that she could explain - but she was only able to cry as Melian held her close and ran a soothing hand through her hair, shushing her much as her own mother would have done. In that moment, she felt a fierce stab of _missing_ for her mother's arms, for her husband's arms, even. With that thought, the knowledge of what Elrond was enduring _alone,_ without her, was enough to bring a new wave of grief to her sobs . . . once again hating that her family was so far from her reach.  
  
It took her a long time to cry her fill, and when she at last drew back to dry her eyes, her head ached and her stomach rolled in answer to her outburst. Her eyes were swollen, and her skin was raw from her tears. When she leaned forward to wash her face in the pool, even the healing waters of Lórien could do little to sooth her pains away.  
  
All the while, Melian waited patiently, her great presence a comfort of its own as Celebrían called herself to order once more.  
  
“Arwen has chosen the fate of Men, for love of Aragorn the mortal man . . .” Celebrían found her voice dry to her use, but her words were intelligible enough. “She will die . . . she will _die_ a long and painful death as she forces her fëa to part from this world and join her husband in the next, and I . . . I will never see her again. I will never be able to tell her how much I love her . . . how much I have missed her . . . how very _proud_ I am of her for being brave enough to make this choice in the first place. Knowing that is as a weight, one I cannot seem to breathe under.”  
  
For a long time, Melian was silent in reply. The gardens of Lórien seemed to close in around her, as if offering her warmth from their embrace. And yet, Celebrían only felt cold. “There is peace in death for Mankind, if only in the thought that they will be reunited with their loved ones again," this she said bitterly. “Even when the hröa of an Elf dies, the fëa only returns to Námo for a time being. While there is a parting between the living and the dead, it is not eternal, it is not unbearable for the hope of _someday_ we hold for seeing our loved ones again. But this . . . there is a _sundering_ between the Firstborn and the Secondborn. There is a chasm, a gaping maw, and to lose my daughter to the other side of that divide . . .”  
  
Her words were not enough, not nearly enough to explain the turbulence of her emotions, but she could think of no other way to phrase the pain she felt inside. In many ways, she did not have to find a way to articulate her emotions, for Melian had spent centuries longer than she in mourning the death of her daughter. She had spent centuries contenting herself with the truth of her daughter's choice, and now . . .  
  
Now, as she spoke, Melian did little more than take her hand comfortingly between her own. Yet, her presence was a balm itself as Celebrían continued: “And if I must lose her this way, the worst part is feeling as if I have failed her. If few are the days she shall live, then I should _be there_ for those days. I should have been stronger . . . I should have _endured_ . . . I should have stayed with my family until my very spirit faded away, if only to take the few moments more I could have known. And yet, I was not strong enough . . . I was not . . . ” she tried to speak, but her voice at last failed her.  
  
“Oh, dear one,” at that Melian did breathe, reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet her eyes. “In that, if only in that, you are wrong. It was no weakness on your part, but rather a _strength_ that you endured for as long as you did. During the time you had, you gave your daughter both love and an example of courage and fortitude to follow. Perhaps, it was a lesson she learned all too well,” Melian acknowledged wryly, “for her to embrace this fate, rather than forsaking the sweet for fear of the bitter.”  
  
At her words, Celebrían felt her eyes burn. Stubbornly, she kept back her tears, wanting little more of their falling. “But, I am her _mother_ ,” she whispered. “I should be there . . . she should have someone to . . .”  
  
“And she does,” Melian said firmly in reply. “She has the greatest strength possible to find in another being. After . . .” for this, the Maia had to stop and gather her words again. Celebrían looked, and saw the great weight of her own grief, even after the passing of so many millennia. “After Elu was slain, it was as a physical pain to hold my spirit to a form of flesh and bone. To bear Lúthien, I tied my physical body to the spirit of my husband, and to endure after he was gone . . . I did, though the stories will never tell of my doing so. I held on long enough to see my daughter one last time, to hold her in my arms and tell her of my love and pride. In the end, the only thing that made letting go possible was my knowing that she was cared for. It brought me peace, knowing that she had a love worthy of death, a love deep and great enough to sacrifice my own happiness for . . . I do not think I would have been able to let her go for anything less than that.”  
  
“And yet,” Celebrían whispered, “you were able to say goodbye.”  
  
“Is that what draws your tears?” Melian raised a brow. “In a way, my bond with my daughter was sundered – or, at the very least, deeply wounded – as soon as Thingol committed Beren to his quest. Things were never the same between us again, even after they were granted their mortal life. I lost that time for reacting in fear, while you left with a daughter who still cherished you in your final moments. You said goodbye that day in the Grey Havens, did you not?”  
  
“I did,” Celebrían replied, finding the words tight about her throat. “But that was not . . .” she could not finish her sentence. She swallowed, and felt as if she did so about a stone.  
  
“It was not the same?” Melian finished gently. “Did you tell her of your love, promising to hold that love dear until next you would meet again?”  
  
“Yes . . . yes I did,” her voice was a small sound in reply. “I had thought a century to pass – a handful of them, even. Not . . .” she then thought of the gaping chasm of _eternity_ stretched out between them. For a moment, even her immortal mind balked underneath such an unfathomable cast of time.  
  
“Eternity is long,” Melian said, as if reading her thoughts. "Yet, you are of Arda, and as Arda endures, so shall you. And with you, your love shall endure. You will remember, even unto the breaking and reforging of the world. Such a time is a whisper, a stolen hope that even my lord Manwë can only see but glimpses of - but a hope it is, a _longing_ in our hearts for peace and reunions between all of the Children of Eru once more. Great are the days that lie before you, but great is the courage you yourself bear. You shall endure, and someday . . .”  
  
Melian sighed, and looked up to where the blue skies stretched above the floating fronds of the willow trees. Perhaps her eyes tried to pierce the veils between the worlds, as Celebrían herself wished to do, or perhaps her gaze was simply unseeing with her hope, with the great cast of her _wanting_.  
  
“I have faith that I will see my daughter again,” Melian whispered, “And that _faith_ makes any amount of waiting bearable.” She squeezed her hand, and Celebrían latched on to the strength she represented, the _certainty_.  
  
“And yet,” Celebrían whispered. “I already miss her . . . I miss her so very dearly.”  
  
“As you ever shall,” Melian said simply. For that was the truth in its plainest form. There would be no comfort for that pain, not truly - but the knowledge of her child's happiness made that pain bearable, in the least. Such a happiness was something that, as a mother, she had long thought herself prepared to give up any comfort of her own for. This, though great in scope, was not so very different.  
  
Celebrían took in a deep breath, and tried to reach a selfless state of peace within herself. She exhaled with with her missing, and instead tried to content herself with thoughts of her daughter's happiness, her daughter's opportunity to know love and be loved in return.  
  
“Now then,” Melian started. In her star-lit eyes, her own tears were a wet cast, making them shine even brighter than the soft light of Lórien. “You have told me much about your family, but I wish to know more about my daughter's successor. Tell me about your Arwen.”  
  
And so, Celebrían took in a fortifying breath as she arranged herself more comfortably on the bank of the pool. She then started to speak, giving her words to Melian's patient, waiting ears. And then, just for that moment, the weight of the years stretching before her did not seem so terrible a thing to endure.


	62. "put them together"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beren/Lúthien || Prompt: _Way_ , Free-write

In the end, it was the small things that gave her away.  
  
Her husband liked to watch her. Beren _knew_ her, he would say in explanation, ever smiling at the silly tales that claimed him to he was bound with a glance and ensnared by something as trivial as a dance. Perhaps, he was _smitten_ at first, he would admit with a wistful look of memory, but he liked to think that he now knew everything there was to know about her – from the differing shape of her smiles, to the telling lines of her frowns. He knew of her wonder for spring storms; her wariness of wolves; her distaste for anything that tasted even slightly of apples. It was his great right and hallowed privilege to know her in ever way, thus, in his own way, latching on to her spirit with a tenacity known only to those of fleeting years.  
  
So, perhaps, it was not surprising that he knew before her . . . that he understood what her own body had been quiet to, refusing to reveal to her conscious mind in so much as a whisper.  
  
Lúthien only knew that she had not been herself the last few weeks. She wearied easily, even for the body of Men she now wore, and any sort of prolonged activity left her short of breath and needing to rest. Sudden motions, and even the faintest of smells – not all of them unpleasant, at that - seemed to have her stomach turning sickly in the mornings. There was a constant, dull ache in the small of her back, one that she could not properly explain, or seem to sooth away. It was not until she was laying with her husband in their bed, with Beren dutifully rubbing away yet another ache from her body that true understanding set in.  
  
“I know that I do not digest dairy products as well as I once did, and yet, this has been going on for much too long . . .” she finished explaining. Punctuating her words, her face contorted in a wince as Beren's hands found a particularly tender spot on her back.  
  
His hands turned still then, and he was quiet – lost in thoughts, she understood from his silence, from the way his dark brow furrowed as if he worked through a puzzle in his mind. She turned to lay on her back, situating herself so that she could properly look up at him, wondering for his thoughts. His eyes were a dark shade of steel in the low light, the dusky shade of his skin almost golden in the glow of the lone candle they had burning.  
  
“What are you thinking, husband?” Lúthien asked. He was propped up on one elbow so that he could better look down at her, and the hand that had been rubbing her back now rested flat on her stomach. She covered his hand with her own in a thoughtless gesture, not understanding the sudden fullness in his eyes when he looked down at their entwined hands.  
  
“Do you think that it is possible . . .” she watched where he had to work to find his words, for so great was their shape. “ . . . do you think that you could be with child, dear heart?”  
  
For a moment, she was not able to speak in reply.  
  
It was certainly possible, she thought. She and Beren had been wed for three years now, and ever since the day they left her father's halls as man and wife they had certainly never been far from each other's bodies. Even now, remembering the way she had pushed him up against the trees in _their_ clearing in Neldoreth for that first time caused a sweet sort of heat to fill her veins, and she watched as Beren's eyes darkened in reply to the memories she so clearly held in her gaze. No, they most certainly did not want for _opportunity_ , and just recently, they had started to speak in earnest about the possibility of bringing a child into the world. Now, she thought about her recent ailments in a new light, and realized that . . .  
  
“How did you know before me?” Lúthien asked, amusement turning her voice wry. She smiled against the sinking sort of feeling she felt fill her, one that she could not properly explain.  
  
“I have never seen many children afoot in Menegroth,” Beren commented wryly. “I did not think you would recognize the signs, simply from a lack of exposure to them. I, however, spent many years assisting my Aunt Andreth when she made remedies for the women of Ladros, and it always seemed that there was some newborn child being welcomed into our community. I watched Belegund and Baragund as they became fathers . . . Belegund knew much as I when his wife was expecting Rían, while Baragund was completely blindsided when Hannel announced Morwen's conception. It was endearing, really.”  
  
Lúthien listened to him speak of his kin with a bittersweet sort of pang, knowing that he knew little of the survivors of Dorthonion now. Once, she had shared the vague shapes of his memories when she still wore her elven body. Mortal though he was, each time she kissed him, each time she held him, her spirit seemed to reach out and try to pull his soul inside of herself. She still retained fleeting impressions from those encounters - precious ghosts of sensation that were now hers to cherish, even as she learned to know her husband all the more so from spoken memories and shared companionship. This was a mortal's bond, a mortal's marriage, and while she would not trade her choice – nor regret her decision – in any way . . . there were still times when she felt the faintest of longings for what she had given up, the faintest of yearnings for what she had left behind.  
  
. . . such as the gift of feeling the shape of her child's soul as it formed . . . the ability to _decide_ for that child, to choose that exact moment of its creation and give of her spirit the same as her husband gave of his. An elven child was not a product of chance, so much as it was the truest blend of souls, leaving their parents ever altered in their wake, but all the more full for doing the sharing of their fëar. It was not a simple question mark of nature, a blessing born by chance occurrence, but rather . . .  
  
Lúthien tried to quell her thoughts – for Beren still knew flashes of melancholy for what he thought to have stolen from her. He mourned the lose of her birthright and heritage even more so than she did in the rare times such melancholy took her, and she would not have him know any form of regret when they were faced with such a wonder – a child, _their_ child, no matter how he had been created.  
  
 _He_ , she thought curiously. Although she had given up the fey shape of her bones, she knew that she carried a son. It was a knowing that rose from deep inside of her, left over from the spark of her mother's might in her spirit, so interwoven with the fabric of her being that Námo had not dared to part it from her . . . She would give her husband a son, Lúthien knew with certainty, and she could not help the giddy sort of feeling that rose within her at the thought. They were going to have a son. A _son_.  
  
All the while, Beren watched her feelings play out over her face. His expression dipped with her own when her mind strayed to darker things, and he leaned down to rest his brow against hers as her eyes filled with her joy.  
  
“I am sorry,” he whispered. His baritone voice turned even deeper with the weight of his feelings, and she closed her eyes against the sound. They had talked more than once about children, and she had explained the ways of her people, just as he shared the way of his. He knew what she mourned, and though she could not feel the warmth of his spirit reach out and try to bolster her own, she could feel the solid warmth of his arms – shifting so that she could rest her head against his chest as he held her close. Though different, the love such actions communicated was much the same, so much so that she could not quite remember what she found to regret in the first place.  
  
“Do not be, beloved,” she whispered. “For you have given me a gift greater than all I knew before.”  
  
“You speak to me of gifts, when you lie here before me . . . when _both_ of you are a blessing beyond compare,” Beren whispered, his hand moving to trace absent patterns over the still flat shape of her stomach. While his words were heavy with feeling, it was the truth of those words in his gaze that snared her, much as it ever had. Her own eyes felt warm; they burned, even as such a smile stretched across her face.  
  
“A son,” she whispered when she found the voice to do so. “He shall be fair beyond all reckoning, both in appearance and the kindness of his hand . . . for he shall rule as a king of trees and precious stone . . .” she closed her eyes, trying to reclaim her far off glimmers of vision – seeing only _such a light_ when she glimpsed her child's future. And while the light itself was troubling enough to give her pause, it was what came _after_ that light that gave her hope . . . that settled into her spirit with as a blessing for the long ages of the world to come.  
  
Yet, her attempt at reclaiming the bare remnants of her mother's gifts faded from her when Beren moved down her body to rest his face against her stomach. There was such a look of love in his eyes, of _devotion_. They hit her like the tide swallowing the shore, surrounding her with such a warmth that she could not bring herself to mourn the loss of a bond between souls. For how could that possible hold against the enormity of what she felt now? The _rightness_ for which she had fought and sacrificed everything to keep?  
  
“My son,” Beren whispered against her stomach, as if the newly growing child within could already hear him, and understand his words. “ _Our_ son . . . I welcome you, little one, into our lives and into our hearts, and pray that you already know how loved you already are . . . Today, you have made your father the happiest . . . the most _blessed_ man in this marred world.”  
  
Lúthien traced a fond hand through his hair as he lingered against her womb a moment more, the backs of her fingers brushing against the curved shape of his ear as she did so. She closed her eyes, feeling warm in the contentment that filled her then.  
  
When, sometime later, Beren moved to hold her in his arms again, she curled into him, their joined hands still held tight over her stomach as the two of them – the _three_ of them, drifted off to dreams, content for what the morning would bring.


	63. "waves, upon arriving"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm & Caranthir || Prompt: _Game_ , Free-write
> 
> This one carries on with my Celegorm/Lúthien arch found in chapters 21 and 30. It also settles in nicely with chapter 31, where I completely re-wrote the Second Kinslaying, and delved a bit more into both Celegorm and Caranthir's minds. 
> 
> That said there is a **WARNING** for stalker behavior, thoughts of violence towards a child, and general mental unpleasantness in this one. If any of that sounds like something you would rather not read, I would recommend waiting for the next ficlet.

**Game**  
  
There was an odd sort of spell over the southern-most woods of Ossiriand, where the once dead walked as the living on the Isle of Tol Galen.  
  
In some ways, Celegorm believed that no other place outside of Aman - besides, perhaps, hidden Doriath itself - could sing in such a way to his senses. Old magic lingered in every shape of leaf and bough; while enchantment murmured with the river and whispered with the wind. Its aura was one that itched against his skin; it turned heavy within his throat.  
  
 _You are not welcome here_ , the beating cadence seemed to say, flapping its ghostly wings against his senses. This isle was a place of idle peace and whispered wonderment, and his soft steps seemed to pollute his surroundings with every stolen stride. Even so . . . he could not bring himself to stay away.  
  
It was shameful of him – ridiculous, even - to linger and look where his eyes had no right to lie. The Lady Lúthien had swept into his life and out with the turn of an autumn day, and he'd meant it when he said that he did not love her - that he expected no such attachment of souls to ever grow between them. He'd already seen what the great force of _love_ could do; toppling mountains as Finwë's selfish _love_ did, or failing to move them as his mother's _love_ for his father. He even knew a faint, distant whisper of it himself whenever _she_ had smiled, her bow-callused fingers touching his shoulder in either affection or annoyance. She -  
  
\- but _she_ was dead now, stolen and later slaughtered by her _Moriquendi_ mate. In his own way, he had thought to inflict a justice of his own by binding the Sindarin Princess to his side as his wife. _Love_ was wanting and denial and pain and words thrown as daggers; he was simply saving Lúthien from binding herself to such a misery. Better would she find her life's meaning by standing to serve the more real and tangible threat of Morgoth in the north. This he had truly believed at the time, and this he still believed – for ties between his people and hers were still as severed as ever, and she now had naught but her fairy-tale to offer Middle-earth as a whole. And what would such a tale do but to warm hearts, and make fluttering girl-children sigh in longing for their own loves? Such stories could not shield soldiers from arrows, they could not console widows and sooth fatherless boys. For the Valar to be moved by the plight of _her_ story when thousands of souls lamented . . . for the Valar to lift Lúthien up on high when they left _her_ to . . . but, he could not carry that thought through, even within the privacy of his own mind. He set his mouth, and made fists of his hands.  
  
Maedhros could say all he liked about Lúthien's story _inspiring_ , about the time now being right for their throwing the full force of their weight against Angband in the north. But where the fervent zeal in his brother's eyes expected the battlements to break and the Dark One to kneel, Celegorm was more pragmatic in his view. The battle to come would be nothing more than blood and loss, and he'd accepted that. Perhaps . . . perhaps he would think differently if the support they had from Doriath was more than a stray pair of bowmen, but, alas . . . Lúthien was _Beren's_ wife, and her people would continue to hide behind their false sense of security, arrogantly refusing to join the fight for all those toiling upon tired Endórë as a whole. Maedhros was foolish to think that Thingol's decision was based solely on his failed courtship of Lúthien - Thingol's heart had hardened as soon as that first drop of blood spilled at Alqualondë, and Celegorm would not carry the weight of that sin on his shoulders alone.  
  
All of this his rational mind understood, and accepted. And yet . . .  
  
He could not bring himself to stay away.  
  
Celegorm returned, time and time again, the smallest of stolen glimpses a balm for his tattered soul. She danced in the twilight for her husband, but the barest glance of pale skin or night-dark hair had his breath catching and his eyes turning as full as they had the first time he had seen the Moon rise in the black, _black_ sky. The sound of her laughter, the faintest notes of song . . . he lived for what he might catch of them, his fëa contracting and warming against the surface of his hröa in a dangerous, _telling_ way whenever she was near.  
  
When he was away from Tol Galen, he tried to tell himself that he was stronger than her. He was stronger than whatever base sentiment his soul was filling him with - _crippling_ him with . . . and yet, he could not bring himself to stay away. His temper was volatile in the days he spent away from her - punctuated by broken glasses and harsh words and dark oaths sworn to the point that even Curvo stopped listening to his hatreds and jealousies. During those days, only harsh Caranthir would dare his black moods, and even the gentle Ambarussa would step forward to restrain him by force when need be, one hanging on tightly to each arm before he did himself – or anyone else – a harm when his fits of fey rage took him.  
  
It was becoming an obsession, a _madness_ within him; one even greater than the Oath that was tearing its way through his skin, whispering that their father's Silmaril was there, right _there_ . . . so close, but so out of reach as long as Lúthien drew breath. For the House of Fëanor had already paid her great harm and insult, and they would not do so twice in one lifetime – this Maedhros had decreed, and coldly suggested that any pain of spirit he felt at the decision was a penance fitting for his dealings with her and her mortal man.  
  
Yet, Maedhros was deluding himself if he thought that any victory in the North would move Thingol to return their Silmaril once they pried the other two from Morgoth's cold crown – this Celegorm could not help but think in cruel amusement. His _dear_ brother was living a fantasy if he thought that it would be so easy, so _clean_. For they were cursed - both by the Valar and their own deeds - and nothing but blood and his own, particular brand of force would see the words of their Oath through. This Celegorm knew, and this Celegorm was willing to embrace – only, he seemed to be the only one of his brothers yet willing to do so.  
  
And so, until he could sooth the savage yearning in his soul to wrap his hands around the Silmaril's holy light once more, he lingered in the River-lands . . . watching . . . waiting. He stayed, even as the trees seemed to frown down at him, as even the air itself seemed to thicken in unwelcome at his presence. Once, he had been able to tell the speech of the woodland beasts, and sing so that the birds understood his song, but that gift had been falling beyond his grasp all the more so with each passing day. It was something he did not think about whenever he could, refusing to remember the woods of Oromë, and the delight in Irissë's eyes as she pointed to one bird after another, whispering: _of what does that one sing?_ while the Trees waxed and waned overhead . . .  
  
In some ways, Lúthien looked so much like _her_ . . . only, she bore the light of her Maia-mother in her grey eyes, rather than the divine light of the Trees. They each had the same night-black hair, the same arched brows, the same hooked line about their mouths when they disagreed with something he did . . . Only, Irissë's features had been sharper than Lúthien's soft countenance; her nose the slightest bit longer and her mouth the slightest bit thinner; her cheekbones haughty and sharp where Lúthien's were gentle and curved. Irissë's strength was the strength of a hunter and bowman, while Lúthien bore a dancer's litheness and grace with every step . . . Irissë wore calluses upon her hands, while Lúthien's were butter-soft, she having known not of a day of hardship or hard labor in her immortal life . . . Irissë could match him steel for steel, while Lúthien had her witch's enchantments and uncanny spells . . . And, now . . .  
  
Was _that_ what lingered with him, Celegorm wondered? Did her spells still muddle his mind and overwrite one woman's eyes over the others with such painful ease? For, some days, he felt as if he were unable to tell up from down, and rather, instead, did he fear . . .  
  
To think that he had once _scoffed_ at the weakness of Finwë for taking his second bride . . . he had _scorned_ his mother for a fool in her efforts to sooth Fëanor's mind with the stubborn warmth of her own spirit . . . he had _laughed_ at Caranthir for his mooning devotion to his mortal woman, and provided no comfort for his grief when he mourned her inevitable passing. For they were _fools_ all to let such a weak emotion as _love_ fill them, and now . . . Celegorm could no longer tell _love_ from any of the rancid emotion rotting in his veins . . . and that was the part that truly terrified him. Did he ever trully _love_ Irissë, or did he only feel guilt for her fate, and his role in her ending? Did he _love_ Lúthien, or was it a combination of his pain and his grief and his rage against her people that resulted in this obsession lining his bones and rising as a fire in his lungs?  
  
. . . the answer to those questions was one he did not much care to know, and so, he pushed his thoughts away, instead contenting himself on the flames of his obsessions. It was better than the alternative.  
  
There was a movement on the deer path ahead of him, and he melted into the shadows as a force of habit, letting the forest embrace him whole.  
  
It was not _her_ . . . it was not her husband, even – for which Celegorm was glad, for he did not think that he would be able to keep from doing Beren a true harm if the opportunity presented itself. Instead, there was a child sitting where the path cut through a wide clearing. The boy was bundled in a thick cloak against the crisp note of spring in the air, and his grey eyes were alight with the song of the birds on the high branches up above. This was not Celegorm's first time encountering young Dior, nor did he think it would be the last. Here, where all was sacred and sheltered, Lúthien did not have to worry for letting her child out of her sight. For what lingered in the forest outside of the natural darkness of the shadows? Here, far from the toil and hurt of the rest of Endórë as a whole, she could live in a peace denied to so many others, and pretend . . . _pretend_ as so many of the Sindar pretended, while it was he and _his_ people who gave of blood and soul for a land that was not truly their own.  
  
That old, familiar rage was rising within him, snapping against his spirit as something living, and he pushed it back though a long, familiar struggle.  
  
His first time seeing Dior had been as a shock to his senses. To see _her_ features – her bright grey eyes and her halo of ebony hair now worn as a messy mop of curls upon her son's head . . . The boy's features were sharp enough to pass as a child of the house of Finwë, even, and he had momentarily been able to fool himself, and imagine . . .  
  
But no, Beren's son was Beren's son, and Celegorm had no mate, nor a son of that union to call his own.  
  
Irissë's son had not looked at all like Irissë, he then remembered with a pang. Instead, Lómion had the sharp, pinched look of his father; his mother's coloring all but stolen and seemingly plastered upon some stranger's face. Seeing the youth glaring from the back of his horse, his eyes distrusting and wary . . . the knowledge that Eöl had taken by force what, perhaps, should have always been as unfettered as storm-wind . . . Eöl had _taken_ , and Irissë had _suffered_ , and Thingol had done _nothing_ to check the rabid beast living on his lands. Instead, he had allowed the old spells of Nan Elmoth to sink into his tenant until they were as a living force, allowing him to . . .  
  
But Celegorm could not think about that now . . . not when his own refusal to greet Irissë in Himlad had moved her to enter Nan Elmoth in the first place. He was as guilty as Thingol, as guilty as _Eöl_ . . . and so, he pushed that thought aside, and looked down on the child with a gaze filled with cold fire.  
  
Normally, he would find Dior practicing with his wooden sword, or playing with the training bow he just received from his last visit to Doriath. This time, the boy sat very still in the clearing, looking up at the canopy of treetops as if searching. Celegorm was not sure how long he stood there while Dior kept his vigil, all the while inspecting the tip of his hunting blade with a queer sort of fascination. Above him, the birds sang a trilling song, but he was deaf to tell of their words.  
  
The birds sang, and Dior tilted his head as if listening. When he turned, Celegorm could see that the tips of his ears were pointed, but only just. “I can see you there,” the child called out into the shadows. “The birds too know you are there. You may come out, if you wish.”  
  
When Dior blinked, Celegorm could not espy Lúthien or Beren from the _otherness_ in his eyes. Was it the might of her Maia-blood, or the strange earthiness of the sons of Men shining from his gaze? He could not tell, and he did not quite care to know.  
  
“I would not do so, for your own sake,” he answered simply, further backing into the shadows as his voice pierced the calm of the forest. He half-turned, preparing to leave then and there, inwardly cursing himself for his stupidity in coming close enough to be discovered in the first place.  
  
Dior tilted his head again, and frowned delicately. “I am waiting to see the Onodrim,” the child revealed. “They come to sing with my mother in the spring, and if I sit very still, I am told that I can espy their arrival. Yet, the birds say that the Shepards will not pass this way as long as _you_ are here.” There was a question in the boy's voice, even when he gave no such shape of his words. Celegorm felt a whisper of foreboding fill him, seeing Thingol's might to come within the boy, even though he wore no crown upon his brow.  
  
“Perhaps,” Dior offered, the innocence of a child then overriding the old names in his blood, “if you were to come and wait with me, they would not be afraid of you. If you wished, you could see the Orodrim too. Have you ever seen the trees walk up tall on their roots? I am told that it is wondrous to behold.”  
  
Celegrom frowned, and ran a restless finger over the edge of his blade. He could feel his skin turn white at the press of the steel, giving just before breaking underneath the pressure. He momentarily toyed with the idea of stepping out from the shadows, with letting the boy see the telling mark of his white gold hair, and the fire off Fëanor glowing in his eyes. Let him later tell his mother, let him warn his _father_ \- Celegorm would be glad to meet them both.  
  
He made up his mind, and went to step out from the shadows - when a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, forming an unforgiving grip. He was pulled away from Dior, away from the temptation the child represented, and down the deer-path until they were out of sight and away from hearing. Only then did Celegorm stop and yank his hand free of his brother's grasp.  
  
“What do you think you are doing?” was the first thing Caranthir hissed, placing himself between Celegorm and the way back to Dior.  
  
“I am _hunting_ ,” Celegorm replied sardonically, bearing his teeth in an awful mockery of a smile. “How about yourself? Tol Galen is far from Lothlann, where your new _Engwar_ toys await. How did you explain your absence to Ulfang, I wonder?”  
  
Caranthir only answered by further pushing him down the path. While Maedhros just barely surpassed him in height, Caranthir was the only one of his brothers who was close to matching him in both height _and_ mass. Even so, he dug in his feet, and stubbornly held his ground.  
  
“Curvo told the rest of us where you have been sneaking off to,” Caranthir ignored his words in favor of saying in cross, irritated Quenya. “He did not have the patience – nor the interest - to come and fetch you, and if Nelyo had to, he would have done you a true harm – those are his words, not mine. And as you are indeed keeping me from my duties as a host to the Easterlings, you should know that my temper is _thin_ , and endeavor not to provoke it.”  
  
“I think that I would welcome seeing Maedhros try,” Celegorm returned, his blade still held naked in his hand. “The same goes for you. I will leave when I am good and ready to.”  
  
Caranthir only narrowed his eyes in barely checked annoyance. “Put the knife away. You are behaving as a child.”  
  
“A _child_ am I?” Celegorm replied incredulously. “How is that so when I am the _only_ one of us endeavoring to see our Oath - ”  
  
“You mean by your stalking a happily married woman, and holding naked steel in the presence of a defenseless _boy_?” Caranthir interrupted, pushing him again. This time, Celegorm stumbled. “By the Valar, Tyelko, but what has happened to you?”  
  
“What has _happened_ ,” Celegorm replied in a low, dangerous voice, “is that I am the only one not viewing the reclaiming of our father's Silmarils as a _game_. Dior is a child now, but someday . . .” he let his words taper off, knowing then with an awful certainty that their lives and deaths were entwined, he and the son of Beren. It was a knowledge he could not shake; a certainty he could not fight away.  
  
Caranthir frowned, and said, “You do not know the shape the future brings, and if Dior sets himself opposite of our Oath as a grown man, that is one thing . . . and that day is one I hope never comes to pass, at that. But I swear by Eru himself, if you move on Beren's son while he is still a _child_ -”  
  
“ - you would what?” Celegorm harshly returned. “Would you kill me? Would you once again darken your hands with the blood of kin, with the blood of your _brother_.” He snorted meanly. “What does the life of a half-elf mean to _you_? Dior is nothing more than an unnatural mistake of nature, and for you to hold him higher than you would one born of the same womb . . .” his voice tapered off, seeing the still, dangerous way Caranthir was holding himself in reply to his words. “By Morgoth's teeth, but you are pathetic,” he sneered as understanding filled him. “She is _dead_ , and the only good she _ever_ did you was making sure that you did not have a _child_ to -”  
  
He would later blame it on the madness filling him that Caranthir was able to flip his own blade from his hand and press it flat against his neck, his breath leaving him as his back collided with the nearest tree. He was too busy with his low, cruel peals of laughter to even fight his younger sibling away.  
  
“Oh, cool your rage!” Celegorm spoke around the steel pressing down against his throat. He was laughing, and he could not bring himself to stop, even when he was shaking from the violence of it. “Do you truly think that _any_ of this will work? Do you think that we will march on Morgoth, and _win_? Do you think that Thingol will be so pleased and _thankful_ for our ridding the Foe of the World from Endórë that he will give the Silmaril his daughter _died_ for back to us out of thanksgiving and reverence? No.” His laughter was not abating, it only took on a desperate edge, sounding almost like a sob. “ _No_. We will fight, and many good men will fail and _die_. We will then wait for Lúthien herself to _die_ , and then march on Doriath to reclaim what is ours when Morgoth is so far out of our reach as the noon is from _night_. Protect Dior now, but someday his blood will be _mine_ . . . perhaps, even then our Silmaril will remain far from our hands, and again and _again_ we will -”  
  
Caranthir struck him hard across the face, ending his tirade and causing him to choke on his last mad, desperate giggle. He chortled once, twice, and then fell silent, glaring mulishly at the other as a fire not unlike their father's grew in his eyes.  
  
“If and when that happens, we shall deal with that day as it comes,” Caranthir replied in a low, dangerous tone. “Yet, for now, there is a fight before you, and it rests far from here. Irissë is _dead_ , brother,” this he said in a gentle, _terrible_ voice, “and Lúthien is not she. Let them both go, for your own sake.”  
  
Celegorm made a strangled noise, like an animal struck by an arrow, but still pulling itself through the underbrush with the vague hope of escape and _life_. He shoved Caranthir away from him, an icy rage filling his body with a violent, dangerous warning.  
  
“Utter her name again,” he all but growled, “and I will cut it from your throat.”  
  
Caranthir merely raised a brow in reply, as if daring him to do so. He then tilted his head, listening to the birds as they sang in the wood. Once, Celegorm remembered distantly, he had taught him to do so – feeling pride fill him as his baby brother's large eyes looked up at him in wonder and awe until he too understood what the winged folk were saying. Distantly, he imagined teaching that skill to a son of his own. But, now . . .  
  
“We have not the time for that. The birds warn of Beren approaching,” Caranthir said. He glanced over, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Can you no longer understand them?” when he spoke, his voice was not completely unkind.  
  
Celegorm merely glowered, and brushed past him, making sure to clip his shoulder as he did so. “If you want the mortal to live, we should leave now,” he said rather than replying - but his words were answer enough.  
  
“As you wish,” Caranthir inclined his head. He waited only a moment before following him down the path with a steady, strong side.  
  
As the birds sang above them, Caranthir whistled in time with their song. Celegorm simply turned his face away from them both, hardening himself to anything and everything about him until they left the isle of Tol Galen far behind them.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Lómion** : Aredhel's name for Maeglin  
>  **Curvo** : Short for Curufin  
>  **Tyelko** : Short for Tyelkormo, Celegorm  
>  **Nelyo** : Short for Nelyafinwë, Maedhros  
>  **Engwar** : Sickly Ones, Quenyan term for Mankind  
>  **Moriquendi** : Dark Elf, one who has not seen the light of the Trees


	64. "to have and to hold"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompts: _Shallow, Distraction, Surreptitious, Overt, Affliction, Inevitability, Lasting, Beauty, Blight, Remembrance_ , Free-write 
> 
> This is somewhat of a fic-dump here. But these were building up on my hard-drive, and I decided to post them all at once. Again, this is the next part of my Caranthir/Haleth arc, the beginning of which you can find in chapters 10, 31, 34, 52, 53, and 60. This first one picks up right where the last one left off.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

**Shallow**  
  
Haleth did not know how long she slept; only that she slept, and did so more deeply and peacefully than she had since her home in Thargelion was destroyed.  
  
The nearly oppressive warmth of the summer had retreated, giving way to the coolness of the rain falling just beyond. It was a dim morning, the dawn marred by storm-clouds, but that suited her well as she closed her eyes and buried her face into her pillow once more. She stretched languidly, and was nearly surprised when her hands met the very warm, very _male_ flesh of the body sharing her bed.  
  
Her eyes snapped open, and she recalled the night before in a rush – remembering heated kisses and passionate caresses, whispered words as Caranthir asked the One to bless their union, before -  
  
Haleth blinked, for while memory was one thing, it was quite another to have the faint morning light illuminating the strong form so deliciously displayed next to her. She could not keep her eyes from studying the now familiar lines of his face, more relaxed in sleep than she had ever seen him while awake. For once, his hair was messily arrayed, the heavy mass tangled - mostly from her hands, she remembered with a flush - as it spilled carelessly over her pillows. His lungs expanded and retracted in a slow and powerful motion, and though she had seen him bare-chested before, _this_ was quite different as her eyes raked over every inch of pale skin revealed to her now - remembering what it felt like to touch and be touched in return. Her eyes slipped down to where the sheet was draped indecently low on his hips, before she snapped her gaze away and concluded herself well and truly gone.  
  
She flopped back down, and turned her face to groan into her pillow, not feeling _regret_ for her decision, per say, but rather . . . _You are a weak, stupid woman, Haleth Haldad's daughter._ _Now look at what you have done._ Her thoughts berated her, filling her with a sharp sort of adrenaline, all but mocking the languid contentment she had first awakened with. To add to her discontentment, the barest of motions revealed where her body was pleasantly sore and abused from the night before, her skin still sensitive to even the barest of sensations. She felt a dull bruising at her neck, and rolled her eyes as she remembered just how _that_ had gotten there. Caranthir, ridiculous man that he was, had a mark or two – or ten – to match, but his elven body was already healing those wounds faster than was fair – this she knew from leaning over to peak . . . again.  
  
She could no longer stay abed. With an oath and a sigh, Haleth untangled herself from the sheets, all the while being careful not to disturb her sleeping partner. She blindly reached down to grab a discarded tunic from the floor – hers, she thought, until she realized that it was _his –_ and slipped it over her shoulders with a frustrated huff of breath. The garment still smelled like _him_ \- as warm as summer, and as familiar as saddle-leather and woodsmoke - and she had to fight the urge to hug the fabric closer to her body, traitorous as her spinning emotions still were.  
  
With a silent step, she left her bedroom behind for the common-room of her dwelling. She paced the length of the room once, twice, and on her third turn she finally noticed the small fire already neatly stoked and tended in the stone pit. There was a pot of broth slowly heating besides the coals, and in a basket on the bricks she found fresh loaves of baked bread and a day's helping of fruit and cheese and cold game for two. Curious, she picked up a folded piece of parchment next to the offering, recognizing her good-sister's practical hand upon the note.  
  
_Your council_ _still_ _thinks you ill from your 'malady' the night before_ , Taemes informed her. _You are not expected to stir from bed today_. Haleth turned the note over, and could almost _see_ the wink that accompanied the: _Consider this a honeymoon, and my gift for your nuptials,_ that was scribbled, almost as an afterthought.  
  
Haleth gave a snort of laughter, a sound that was equal parts incredibility and disbelief, as she sank down to sit by the fire. She held her head in one hand, even as she had the sense of mind to toss the scrap of parchment into the fire with the other. She watched it turn to ash, her eyes full with the flames as she let the weight of her situation sink in - _truly_ sink in.  
  
_You have already passed the point of no return_ , the practical part of her mind seemed to sigh at her, while the majority of her being, the part that was solely and selfishly _her_ was wondering why she had even left her bed – _their_ bed – in the first place.  
  
She looked down, and saw the ring Caranthir had given her the night before. She twisted it on her finger; marveling at its perfect fit, at the way it caught the light and reflected it with a glow of its own. Her eyes were burning, she puzzled to find, and it took her a moment to realize that she was _happy . . ._ she was _content_ as she had not truly been in so long a time. She had meant it when she said that this would not – _could not_ – end well . . . but, for now . . .  
  
With a soft step, she returned to her room to see Caranthir stirring – perhaps missing her warmth, a part of her was giddy with a girlish joy at the thought. Beyond them, the rain was steadily falling, granting the room a pleasantly enclosed feeling, as if the world had slowed for them, and them alone. She watched where his sleep-clouded eyes darkened upon seeing her, taking in the way his tunic swallowed her; the way the wavy mess of her hair just barely hid the flush spreading across her skin. It was a guilty pleasure for her, the way she felt beautiful and adored underneath his gaze - made even more wondrous from the way she could constantly _feel_ a shadow of that reverence from him. Such was a side-effect of their bond, he had explained the night before, and one that she had used to her great advantage as she learned what pleased him, and he the same for her.  
  
Raising a teasing brow, as if wondering what he could possibly be thinking, she tugged in consideration on the tie of his tunic. She came around the side of the bed to stand before him, and he wasted no time in tugging her down once more. She laughed at the unexpected tilt to her world as her back settled against the mattress, truly happy as she stared up at him. His eyes softened as he stared down at her, and she could _feel_ his contentment as well, settling in against her like a warm blanket. But that contentment only held for a moment before a stirring of need eddied underneath the languor, and she was left to revel in the now familiar warmth of his large hands tracing up and down her body.  
  
In the face of such a powerful argument, she had no choice but to turn her doubts and fears aside. Ignoring everything but for the heat and nearness of him, she buried her misgivings in a shallow grave, and left them there to stay.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Distraction**  
  
Of course, they soon had to return to the real world once more. They spent that whole first day getting to know each other as a couple, her initial dubiousness over centuries of abstinence:  
  
_“Which does not mean that one cannot be_ creative _,” Caranthir had been all too amused to point out, “_ _e_ _specially in those frankly awful years before true adulthood. Afterward, there is_ _simply_ _not much interest_ _for us_ _until we meet our_ _matches_ _–_ _some wait thousands of years to find their mates, and_ _it would be a cruel trick of the One to see them plagued by their bodies during that time of waiting, would it not?_ _”_  
  
Which, of course, led to him most certainly _not_ sulking when she outlined her few, short-lived romances in the past:  
  
_“_ _The boys in the village had a wager going over who would gather up the courage to kiss me first. So, I picked the one_ I _wanted to kiss,_ _and_ _agreed to split the pot with him evenly_ _for_ _kiss_ _ing_ _him in full view of the other boys. Perhaps, I allowed him to do more than kiss me when we were older and curious – and it became apparent that I was looking less and less likely to wed. He died in a hunting accident, long before our home in Thargelion was destroyed, and after that my partners were few and far between. There was simply not much . . . interest_ _for me,_ _” there, she mimicked his_ _earlier_ _tone of voice. “There always seemed to be something else drawing both my attention and my time,_ _and I never looked very hard or far for a_ _husband_ _.”_  
  
Now, she could not quite remember why she'd always known an element of dissatisfaction with her previous partners when she was confronted with his single-minded, rather _Fëanorian_ determination to perfect any skill he set his mind to. Rather willingly, she subjected herself as a canvas to his arts, meanwhile knowing a more base form of pride and gratification for the pleasure and completion she could bring to him in turn – reflecting that, perhaps, _this_ was the missing element from her few scattered relationships before, and resolving to think on it no more from there.  
  
Afterward, Caranthir spent more than a few hours teaching her how to use their new-found bond – sometimes to humorous ends, sometimes to wondrous ends, and sometimes to amorous ends, even - and she fell asleep that second night with her mind open to his and sharing his dreams.  
  
The next day, she was nearly certain that _everyone_ knew. She knew that it was her own sensitivity, her own paranoia that felt so, but when Taemes fell into step next to her and playfully counseled her to stop smiling so widely, elsewise everyone _would_ know, she fixed her face into the best mask she could, and carried on from there.  
  
Later that afternoon came the time of Gathering – where she would sit at the head of the Great Hall, and allow any of the Haladin who wished to do so a chance to air their grievances little and great before the Chieftess. She dressed in her best to attend to her people, donning her armor and braided leather skirt as a sign of strength, and placing her simple circlet atop her brow as a sign of leadership. Before she left her home, she watched as Caranthir placed his wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand – in the way of her people, though it would never be viewed as such. Catching his eye, she moved hers to the first finger of her right hand – in the way of the Elves - thus hiding in plain sight from her own people, the ring appearing as nothing more than a rather pretty trinket upon her hand.  
  
Even as she took her place at the head of the Hall, and listened with the utmost seriousness to disputes ranging from the theft of a cow, to a farmer's contested right over a certain well, she could feel Caranthir at the back of her mind, offering an endless commentary on the proceedings. Sometimes, he had true insights to offer – in a way she was now grateful to take without it looking as if she adhered too closely to his counsel – but worse was when he abused their connection in order to share a thought designed to make her laugh - or worse, to make her blush - not caring for how she would appear before her people. She tried to push a wave of ire at him, but she was still clumsy with navigating between their minds, and all she managed to do was to scrunch up her face in a way that had Hathor asking her if she was still feeling the effects of her 'sickness' from the night before.  
  
Caranthir coughed from where he was lingering on the wall, and Haleth summoned the most withering thought she could and successfully pushed him from her mind with a shove.  
  
Of course, after the next petition was heard – something about a father not receiving the full bride-price from his good-son's family - she looked down at her ring, and found her mind wandering as the case droned on. Her attention had to be summoned twice before she offered her sincerest apologies for her straying mind, deciding to add three sheep, and a weight of grain onto the originally negotiated price - to be more easily paid over the expanse of the next four quarters, rather than all at once. She then turned to offer the young couple her blessing for their future, dryly remarking that she hoped their attention to detail, no matter how backed by the law, would not harm their own children when they celebrated their unions to come. At her words, the bride's father sputtered, and the offending parents looked on in gratitude – they having not been able to afford the bride their son loved, though they worked to pay that debt now.  
  
At the back of her mind, Caranthir casually asked how many sheep her own hand would have been worth, even as she haughtily lifted her head and informed him that Haldad would have set her price past what even a prince of the Eldar could have paid . . . and his simple, _human_ relief for not having to charm her father into giving up his only daughter had her fighting back mirth . . . again.  
  
The next case was called, and Haleth pushed him from her mind with a wave of fondness, determined to serve her people without distraction. Even so, Caranthir stared her way the rest of the night, and she could not help the slight smile that crept onto her mouth, no matter how she tried.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Surreptitious**  
  
Sometimes, he felt like a youth sneaking to steal a moment with his sweetheart, rather than a husband trying to spend time with his wife.  
  
But, with the delegation from the House of Marach visiting the lands of the Haladin, there were even more curious eyes on them as of late, and Mundor himself was a thorn in Haleth's side, ever looking for a reason to discredit her and swoop in on the unprotected lands that would be left in the wake of choosing a new Chieftain.  
  
He had to call on a completely different set of skills as he kept to the shadows, as he stepped soundlessly, as he moved with the night, rather than through it, propping open the unlatched window, and -  
  
\- landing most ungraciously, with what would be a rather impressive bump on his head come morning.  
  
“Lo and behold, the fabled grace of the Firstborn,” he heard Haleth's wry voice as she went to help him up. They had agreed not to meet that night, and while annoyance creased her face, her ire did not quite meet her eyes.  
  
“Maedhros' tales made such a venture sound much easier in theory than in actuality,” Caranthir gingerly touched the bruise he could feel growing above his hairline. “There must be a secret he did not then see fit to tell me.”  
  
Haleth sighed, but he could feel her fondness press at him through their bond. “It serves you right,” she tsked at him. “If anyone saw you -”  
  
“ - I was careful,” he protested. “Not a soul saw me.”  
  
“One night,” she continued as if she did not hear him. “ _One night_ apart is not too much to ask for when Mundor is watching my every step. If you -”  
  
He reached over to touch a finger to her mouth, effectively ceasing her speech. She raised a brow as he gingerly closed his eyes, attempting to force the rolling, turbulent sensation in his spirit to cease. “I could not sleep,” he admitted a moment later, “though I tried.”  
  
Her look softened at his words. He leaned forward to rest his head against her brow, feeling true contentment fill him as she ran a soothing hand through his hair, her arguments defeated. With every sweep of her fingers, he could feel his spirit sooth over with warmth and peace; losing its sharp and jagged edge, if only for that moment.  
  
“You must be gone before the dawn,” she warned. Her voice had lost its annoyance, at the very least. He looked down at her, ready to take any victory he could.  
  
“I shall,” Caranthir promised. “Anar shall not even _think_ of rising yet.”  
  
“And, Carnistir?” Haleth leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Next time, you will attract less attention if you simply use the door.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Overt**  
  
Of course, the dawn came to find her quite content with the warm body by her side. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow beneath his chin, and her hand had a way of sandwiching itself between his chest and her own, as if seeking out the soothing rhythm of his heart. The nights were starting to turn cold with the onset of autumn, and she protested when her conveniently elf-shaped pillow shifted and then moved completely, leaving her bereft of his warmth.  
  
Haleth made a vaguely displeased noise, and went to tug him back down again. Her fingers only met empty air, even as a fond hand reached down to smooth back her sleep mused curls from her brow.  
  
“ _I_ was not the one who made the stipulation about leaving before dawn,” Caranthir remarked, his voice thick with amusement and the last vestiges of sleep.  
  
“I take it back,” Haleth waved her hand in an imperious way. “I did not mean a word.”  
  
For a moment, she felt awareness creep upon her, imagining what it would be like to walk with him in the full light of day, to share his name and home as well as a place in his heart, and she felt an uncomfortably heavy sensation settle in her gut, one that was unwilling to ever move completely away.  
  
She swallowed, wishing . . .  
  
\- but that was only until the blankets were quite ungraciously snatched from her. She sat upright as the cold night air hit her, looking accusingly over at Caranthir, who teasingly let the blankets fall somewhere by the door.  
  
“If I have to return to a cold bed, then I think it only fair that you do so as well, dear one,” Caranthir gave her a mock bow before turning - leaving just in time to avoid her chucking an unused pillow at his head.  
  
“Thrice-cursed Orc-son,” she grumbled underneath her breath, but her smile reached her eyes when she went to retrieve her blankets, even when she could not manage to fall asleep on her own again.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Affliction**  
  
Unfortunately, the changing of the seasons meant more than just the arrival of the harvest for the Haladin. There was a rather irksome sickness making its rounds with the turn in the weather, and while it was not the ravaging fevers and lung-deep coughs that caused parents to hold their breath in fear for their children, it was debilitating enough to take even strong men off of their feet for a day or two whilst their bodies recovered.  
  
At first, Haleth did not want to admit herself stricken. Her eyes were only running more than they should be, and she was simply breathing in hot air through her suddenly dry nose and throat. It was not until the fever itself hit her that she finally gave into the failings of her body and took the day abed to let herself recover. All she needed was a night's rest, she insisted, and then she would be much recovered . . . truly.  
  
It was not long before she amended that thought to a night's rest _alone_. Caranthir had been alert to her every need, hovering at her side nearly every moment of the day, but rather than feeling touched by the trouble he was taking to see to her well-being, she felt caged in – suffocated, even. She did not need him to see her like _this_ – sick and weak and _mortal_ – and to know that someday, this would be all she had to offer him . . .  
  
Her thoughts were not kind ones, and she carefully kept them her own by projecting a steady wave of _nothing_ to him – an effort that exhausted her even more so than the failings of her body. There was a cloud between their minds, and she stubbornly kept it that way; feeling his spirit as if from far away, and refusing to let him close in any way. She knew that she worried him by doing so, but she was burdened enough by her own thoughts without the added task of sharing them with _him,_ and she could think of no other way to distance herself.  
  
Even so, Caranthir stubbornly kept to her side – even when she pointedly turned her back on him and wished with everything in her that he would simply _go away_. Worse than any affliction of her body was the heavy look in his eyes – the bafflement, the _question_ _s_ \- as he was faced by this rather unsavory aspect of mortality. It was a look she could not bear to see, not when doing so brought back every ill thought and discomforting notion she had pushed aside with the onset of their relationship.  
  
Eventually, he honored her wishes, but only just. She could not see him, but she could _feel_ him lingering right beyond her reach. Whenever she would nod off to sleep, she would awaken to find that her sheets were fresh and the pitcher of water was ever filled by her side. Tea, brewed from fieldbalm, willow bark, and peppermint was ever close at hand – treating aches and fever while soothing tension - this Caranthir recited as if proud that his _research_ had at last yielded fruit. Eventually, she knew that she was improving when his sudden interest in the medicinal arts drew a waft of fondness from her, rather than filling her with a crushing weight of spirit.  
  
Her appetite returned on the third day, and she stood, ready to search her kitchen for anything close at hand – for she was not yet feeling strong enough to fix something for herself. She was, of course, found and promptly shooed back to bed – all the while being assured that _he_ would handle the kitchen. _S_ _he_ was to do nothing more than rest.  
  
“You cook?” was her first, dubious question in reply to his words. She did not trust the way he was looking through her pots and pans _at all_.  
  
“Most elven men do,” Caranthir replied, enjoying the curiosity that bloomed in her mind for the differences between their peoples. “Although our women tend to task themselves with the bread-making. That aside – I have managed to successfully feed myself for centuries. Of course I cook.”  
  
“I've always pictured you with servants,” Haleth returned, her voice still dry and her throat raw from coughing. “I did not think that spoiled _princelings_ much lifted their hands to tend to themselves.”  
  
For that, Caranthir only snorted in amusement. “My grandfather kept a rather large household staff, but my father was less traditional – and my mother was raised as a common-woman, at that. Fëanor kept few servants when he instead had a surplus of sons to see to the household.” For this, his voice was steeped in fondness. “We were all expected to tend to, and feed, the entire family – and that included the apprentices and colleagues my parents were hosting at the time. So, we rotated cooking and cleaning in the evenings. It was one of the few times my father could be moved from his crafts, and he did so every day to spend time with his family. At least . . . he did so _then_. Those years are my . . . better memories of my family.”  
  
_. . . before Morgoth was released from Námo's halls . . . before the Silmarils . . . before her youngest children drained Nerdanel of spirit and vim_ . . . Haleth carefully sorted through the glimpses of memory she could glean – noticing that Caranthir was slow to end the connection between them when she had kept him out for days. She then felt a flash of guilt - for what was simply a novelty for her (something alien and _more_ , although precious for being so), was quite essential for his health and well-being in comparison. He leaned into the touch of her mind as one tired and thirsty, greedily lapping up the mingling of souls, and she pushed her apology to him as best she could.  
  
Caranthir peeked in to smile at her, and she knew that all was forgiven . . . and understood.  
  
“Only,” he confided a moment later, “we would feed our plates to Huan whenever Maglor cooked – even Atar did so whenever Nerdanel was not looking. In those days, Maglor could not keep his head from whatever song he was composing to keep from burning or miss-seasoning anything he chose to inflict upon us, and his creations were . . . interesting, as a result.”  
  
Haleth snorted at that, and her amusement rubbed at her still sore throat. Even so, she welcomed the good cheer after the low, grey cast of her emotions the last few days.  
  
“I shall keep such in mind,” she inclined her head.  
  
Caranthir continued on with happier anecdotes of his family, and she answered by giving of her own – for, with no mother, she had taught herself to cook for her father and brother when she was old enough to do so. Both had been rather . . . understanding as she learned to grasp some sort of handle over the art. Her father was little more talented than she, and there had been many _interesting_ evenings, full of smoke and mirth, before any sort of equilibrium set in.  
  
“So, do I meet with my lady's approval?” Caranthir asked as he pulled a chair to her bedside, looking down at the plate in her hands.  
  
“Somewhat,” Haleth pretended to consider, a half-smile tugging on her mouth. “The eggs are not too terribly burnt, at least.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
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**Inevitability**  
  
With the arrival of autumn, the scent of threshing wheat and the bite of cold on the air declared his time with the Haladin near to its end.  
  
Caranthir could not stay in Estolad indefinitely, not when he had his own lands to govern and his own people to attend. So far, he had been able to draw his time out with the argument of Elves viewing time differently – and this would not be the longest he had stayed away from Lake Helevorn, at that. Even so, the oncoming winter would make travel in the mountains all but impossible, and so, the earlier he could leave, the better.  
  
He'd known when their relationship began that much of it would be spent with he at his place, and she at hers. Even so, any amount of prior _knowing_ was not comfort enough when those days finally came.  
  
He could still feel her across the distance; only, he felt her as if through water – with the shape of her thoughts swimming just beyond his reach, and the touch of her spirit like a current in the deep, known only by the waves it drew on the ocean's surface. Such was as a day of clouds after knowing the full brilliance of the sun, and now he was not sure how to sustain himself without that light.  
  
At night, he had trouble sleeping, even when he told himself that he had slept alone for _centuries_ , and mere _weeks_ spent with a bedmate should not have been enough to turn that habit aside. He missed the cool feel of her arms, the perfect way her body tucked in against his own; he missed the comforting shape of her dreams, the absent touch of her mind throughout the day. He particularly missed the feel and familiarity of her flesh, and such memories were enough to move him to distraction when his mind chose to wander during inopportune moments.  
  
More so than anything else, he simply missed her presence. He missed having her there to speak to - her voice, her wry humor, her sharp insights. He missed sharing the simple moments of his every day with her. He missed _her;_ from her strength and softness, to the shape of her eyes and the warmth of her breath against his chest as she slept. He missed it _all_ , and his temper was mercurial and biting in those first days apart - he all but fumbling as he struggled to restore some sort of equilibrium to his spirit. His soul was not his mind; rather, his fëa was an elemental force, instead of anything rational and defined. His fëa cared not for the constrains of logic and reason, it was all instinct and _want_ – and that divide was a war between his fey-soul and the higher function of his conscious mind with every passing day.  
  
Before the winter storms fell on the mountain, Maglor and Maedhros again arrived from the north to discus the condition of the Siege, and their plans for the year to come. Normally, their presence was a highlight of the season for him, but, this time . . .  
  
He first tried to avoid his brothers – quickly brushing past them in greeting, and making sure to look them not in the eyes for as long as he could. In reply, he could _feel_ Maedhros' gaze follow him, clearly suspicious as to his strange behavior – even more so than usual, that was. But, it was Maglor who finally moved to press the matter. His elder brother came upon him in the hall, pulling him from his stride with a surprisingly firm grip about his arm, and backing him into one of the tapestry-covered alcoves before he could think to protest. Without bothering to first ask him, Maglor simply grasped his chin and forced him to look up – searching to find what words themselves could not wholly say.  
  
For a moment, Caranthir considered closing his eyes in mulish protest. Instead, he let Maglor look, and defiantly stared right back. Within his eyes, a shadow of his bond with Haleth lied – and Maglor did not have to look for long before dropping his chin with a sigh. In answer to his revelation, he only looked weary, rather than disapproving. Even so, Caranthir stood guardedly in answer, waiting for his reaction.  
  
“Carnistir,” Maglor only sighed once more. “I simply hope that you know what you are doing.”  
  
In reply, Caranthir bowed his head without meaning to do so, everything guarded about his posture leaving him with a rush of breath. He felt _tired_ then . . . so very tired . . . his spirit aching and his mind balking underneath the prospect of someday spending _forever_ as such. If he could not handle a season spent apart from her, knowing that she was still _alive_ and waiting for his return . . . how would he someday bear her death? How would he someday face the long hall of his eternity alone?  
  
When he was with Haleth, he could be strong when facing such an inevitability – he had to be, in order to ensure that she did not burden herself overmuch with guilt and worry. He could bring himself to stare such a fate head-on in order to enjoy what blessings he had in the meantime. And yet, now . . .  
  
. . . he was _scared_. This, the smallest part of himself could just barely admit. He was scared – no, he was nearly _terrified_ of those far off days. For, his bond with her, rather than filling his days with memory enough to someday last him through forever, was only carving in his want and _need_ all the more so. He was learning to exist _completely_ through her, and to give that up, to be forced to turn that aside . . .  
  
His eyes were burning. His hands shook, and he made them fists, trying to regain his composure. But, it was no use – for Maglor knew him, perhaps even better than he did himself. His brother did not move to embrace him, nor he did not say a single word in reply. He simply reached out with the great, awesome warmth of his own spirit – so much like the hearth-fire of Nerdanel's fëa, where he and his brothers were of Fëanor's forge-flame through and through. Gently, Maglor enveloped his desperate thoughts with the peace and serenity of his own. As he had not since he was a very small child - scared of storms, but not wanting to dishonor himself in his father's eyes by seeking out his parents' bed - Maglor held his spirit up by the weight and force of his own. For a moment, he even allowed him to glimpse his own bond with his wife; torn and sundered and _longing._ There, Caranthir was assured that the few memories of gold he had were more than enough to sustain the pain of parting, the pain of _wanting_ – a pain still though it was.  
  
“Someday,” Maglor said simply, drawing back the great warmth of his spirit until it burned as a star from far away, “when that day comes, you will not have to bear your burden alone. Yet, until then . . .” His voice was soft with kindness, with _understanding_ , and Caranthir swallowed in reply. He nodded his head in answer.  
  
“Until then,” he whispered, and forced himself to believe his words as true.  
  
  
  
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**Lasting**  
  
She missed him more than she first thought she would.  
  
If she'd once thought herself strong enough to walk away from the fierce and binding thing between them, a winter spent apart from him was enough to show her the error of her thoughts. She missed it all – from the fervor of his tempers, to the easy warmth of his humor, to the reverent way he touched her in passion. She missed the delightful thrill of bickering with him; the comfortable warmth of his reading to her in the evenings; the fumbling way he was learning to play the fiddle underneath her tutelage. She missed _everything_ , and she was now finding herself ill equipped to deal with her missing . . . with her _wanting_.  
  
Haleth had lost much in life, but to miss something that was beyond her reach because of her own duty, because of her own self-imposed walls - even when for a good and noble reason . . . It filled her with something sharp and pained, something she was finding herself most ill-equipped to deal with. As such, she did not handle their parting well. The winter had her in low spirits, and she was dangerously cross and on edge - to the point where she was counting numbers to cool her temper, and depending on Taemes' tellingly pinching her arm whenever she let her black mood affect the leadership of her people.  
  
She wanted . . . she simply wanted _more_ , and more she could not have. She tried to force herself to enjoy the blessings she knew now, to sustain and succor herself on those _completely_ . . . but, some days were a battle, long and losing in shape.  
  
By the time spring returned, her longing had taken on a still cast of acceptance – like a calm surface over a deep current, granting her patience enough to endure. Even so, as the snows melted, she often found her eyes turning towards the east. When the pastures were finally dry enough to ride, she would take out her roan filly to put her through her paces, but more often than not she simply sat on the fence, feeding her horse apples while she watched, and waited . . .  
  
Haldan joined her more often than not - the child being the only one in Estolad besides Taemes who knew just how deep her relationship with the Elf-lord went. Her nephew watched the rolling fields alongside her, smiling with a child's joy and declaring: “I'm eager to see him too,” as if a shared missing made the wanting more bearable. Haleth simply ruffled his hair in reply, before having him take a turn with the roan in her stead.  
  
They were just reseeding the fields when Caranthir at last returned. She could _feel_ him approach, their bond growing stronger and stronger still the closer he came to Estolad, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting from her skin in reply. Tactfully, Taemes diverted her people's attention, allowing her to be there, _right there_ , when he crested the first rise in the hills.  
  
She could not keep herself from smiling in greeting – and she was then glad for their lack of audience, for she did not think herself capable of schooling her features into a cool mask of polite indifference. Instead, she hardly waited for him to dismount before throwing herself in his arms. He swept her up into an embrace, and kissed her in reply, reveling in the touch and feel of her once more. She sank her hands into his hair to pull him closer, unsure if she'd missed the full, heady press of his emotions against her own more than she'd missed the glorious sensation of him kissing her. She could not quite decide, and when he drew away just far enough to say her name like a prayer – like a mantra, deep and beautiful and _wanting_ – she felt the smallest bit like the Starkindler herself for the weight of his devotion. A part of her sang with contentedness, with _completion_ , and she stubbornly held on to that feeling as if to memorize it, content that _next time_ , a hundred such moments would be memory enough to see her through when she was parted from he and him from her.  
  
. . . in the end, it would have to be.  
  
  
  
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**Beauty**  
  
She had a rather worrying fascination with his hair. Or, at first, she thought she did.  
  
Early in their relationship, she had given in to the urge to touch his hair while he was still sleeping, and lazily started braiding it to her heart's content, reveling in the slick, cool mass as it slipped flawlessly through her fingers. He had awakened nearly half-way through her self-appointed task, and the low, rumbling sound in his chest could have only be called a purr in reply to her attentions. He had been nearly boneless underneath her hands, liquid with contentment, and only then had she understood the fascination he seemed to have with her own hair – touching it as often as he could, even if it was only in passing. Apparently, hair-braiding was a rather significant thing between elves - only done between parents and children, or between married couples. Doing so, she had unconsciously stumbled onto a rather prurient aspect of his race.  
  
She had then smiled, repeating some of mankind's theories about elvish fetishes for hair, and had been amused to find that most of them were true in some regard – which had led to a most interesting conversation about their cultural differences when it came to standards of beauty. Yet, she had then tugged a bit too sharply on one of the braids she was plaiting and their morning took a much more _agreeable_ spin from there.  
  
Unfortunately, during the first days of winter, there had been a band of Orcs straying into their outlying farmsteads, seeking both warmth and shelter from the snows, and Haleth had ridden out with her men to see the threat eliminated. She could still remember his sharp burst of concern against her mind for the violence of that day, but while she had then assured him of her well-being, she had not told him about a close-call with Angband steel resulting in the unfortunate severance of her braid when she struggled to free herself from an Orc's hold. Taemes had cut her hair as flatteringly as she could to conceal the impromptu trim, but her hair had only just regrown to brush her chin. While she'd never had beauty enough to consider herself _vain_ , she was, however, proud of the way he was fascinated by her curls enough to mourn its loss and worry for his opinion now.  
  
A few days after his return to Estolad, they'd left the Haladin behind for a week's time to _hunt_. The truth of the mater was that she had _missed_ him while he was gone, and she did not wish for their first days together to be filled with stolen moments and having to worry for their being seen coming and going together. There was a hunter's cottage, deep in the woods, she had arranged use of, and already with one day spent away, they had done much in making up for lost time. Even so, he had not once mentioned her hair – nor even touched its new shape overmuch in passing, for which she was not self-conscious, per say, but . . .  
  
“I like it,” Caranthir finally said into the contented silence that had fallen between them. He looked up from where he was tracing a pattern between the freckles dotting her shoulder – those a fascination for him as much as the fey tips of his ears were a wonderment to her – making sure to hold her gaze as he said so.  
  
“Really?” her voice came out as a small sound, as much as she meant for it to be strong.  
  
“Truly,” he replied, as if just coming to that decision himself. “It is _different_ . . . and yet, I am finding that to be half of the appeal.”  
  
Elves never cut their hair, outside what was needed to maintain healthy ends, and he'd known curiosity for the men of the Haladin who kept their hair short, or even parts of their scalps shaven. Beards had been another curiosity for him, they being something that only a few of the Valar, or their Maiar chose to have when they chose their bodies of flesh to wear outside of the astral realm. His grandfather Mahtan had a beard, but he was renowned as an oddity amongst elven-kind for doing so – in Estolad, to see it so unthinkingly common had been a curious sight indeed.  
  
“Do you mean that, or are you simply being kind?” she asked, pushing against his chest as she said so. She'd meant for her words to come out teasing, but a note of true unease clung to them, even so.  
  
“I mean my every word,” he leaned over to say as a vow, running a slow, careful hand through the now short strands of her hair. “It is _you,_ ” he said simply. “There is nothing more beautiful to me.”  
  
His words were accompanied by a flash of _truth_ , a glimpse of just how brilliant she was to his eyes – something lovely and brightly burning. She inhaled at the glimpse, her throat suddenly tight to her use.  
  
“You are blind,” she said, her voice full with feeling. “But I do love you for it.”  
  
As always, the words were a pain as much they were a source of peace and joy. Yet, this time, she let that truth fill her with contentment, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she resolved to think of them and nothing else.  
  
  
  
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**Blight**  
  
Of course, not all of his brothers could have the Ambarussa's small smiles, and Maglor's resigned understanding in reply to his choice. He could not say that it was a pleasant surprise, but it was most certainly a _surprise_ when he crested the bluff rising above the river to see Celegorm and Curufin standing on the lip of the rock, looking down to where Haleth instructed her nephew on his sword-forms below.  
  
“Greetings, Carnistir,” Curufin was the one to speak when Celegorm did not bother to glance his way – busy as he was studying the mortal woman down below. In the green forest light, the tanned shade of his skin was even darker, while the white-gold mane of his hair was seemingly aglow against the shadows thrown by the trees.  
  
“And greetings to you,” Caranthir returned with cool welcome, raising a brow as he took in the sight of them. He had not seen the pair in many years, they mainly keeping to Himlad or the wild when the need for the hunt took Celegorm. He had never been particularly close with either of them, his temperament having the tendency to clash for the worst with both of their personalities more often than not.  
  
Even so, “What brings you to Estolad?” he inquired with polite neutrally.  
  
“We were on our way to Amon Ereb, to meet with the Ambarussa,” Curufin answered. His voice was deep and rich - a perfect match for their father in both timbre and tone. For a moment, Caranthir was hit by the unsettling idea of Fëanor looking down at his choice in Curufin's place, and judging . . . it was a conversation he was shamefully glad that his sire was no longer alive to make. “We were waylaid by the rumor of a shield-maiden leading one of the Three Houses – one who was said to have caught your eye, at that.”  
  
“As such, we had to see for ourselves,” Celegorm finished for his brother. “Sweet Eru, but she is ugly, even for one of the Engwar.” He laughed, even as he shook his head in amazed disbelief. “Even _you_ would have better taste than that, Carnë.”  
  
“She looks no different than most of the daughters of Men to my eyes,” Curufin's face was ever cold, seemingly cast from marble rather than flesh and bone. “Her form is admirable, though.” His voice was distant as he gave the compliment, already bored and moving on to other matters within his mind.  
  
Celegorm snorted, but even he could not disagree with Curufin's words. Caranthir simply stood there, feeling as a cold anger filled him for their words – so much so that both of his brothers turned to see, as if surprised by the fervency of his reaction.  
  
“Is there truth to the rumors?” Celegorm then wondered aloud. He reached out, lightning fast, to gasp his chin, his movement such a déjà-vu of Maglor's search that Caranthir blinked at it. But where his elder brother's motions were steeped in concern, there was only cruel amusement in Celegorm's gaze – and Caranthir did not count him worthy to look on something he himself held so highly. He wrenched his face away from his brother's bruising grasp, but not before -  
  
“ _Morgoth's bowels_ , but this is rich,” Celegorm gave on a laugh, leaning forward with the force of his humor. “Not only are you _besotted_ , but you actually went and _mated_ with that creature. Oh, but it is too much to bear all at once!”  
  
Caranthir was surprised to hear a low sound rise up from his throat, all but growling as his fëa rose to ripple against the surface of his skin in reply to his words. A fey anger was filling him, violent and righteous, and he was stopped only by Curufin reaching over to place both hands on his shoulders in restraint.  
  
“ _Silence_ ,” Curufin hissed at Celegorm in rebuke. Though he did not disagree with Celegorm openly, he knew better than to provoke an already angered mate, and he placed himself before Celegorm as the other continued to laugh, unaware of the danger he unwittingly placed himself in. “It is your good-sister you so dishonor, Tyelko. Better would it be for you to more closely guard your tongue.”  
  
“ _Dishonor_? _Good-sister_?” Celegorm continued to chortle. “ _I_ am not the one who drew the legacy of our father's name through the mud and took a human _cow_ \- ”  
  
Caranthir shoved Curufin to the side, only intent on reaching the other and _striking_ – but Curufin was prepared, and had the advantage of a calm and cool head. He grabbed each of his arms in a bruising grip, pulling him away from Celegorm as he continued to laugh.  
  
“In a moment, I will not bother to hold him back,” Curufin turned to the side to hiss lowly in warning.  
  
Celegorm waved them both off, still lost to his mirth. His eyes were cutting and sharp - they growing all the more so with each passing year, Caranthir noticed with an ill sense of forboding.  
  
“I apologize,” Celegorm said with a mocking bow. “I retract my words, and offer you and your mortal wife nothing but my _sincerest_ hopes for your future happiness . . . for the blinking of an eye that it shall last, that is.” He shook his head, as if in wonderment, and Caranthir felt his anger bubble forth anew, not nearly assuaged.  
  
“It is time for you to leave,” Caranthir settled for saying stiffly, having to force himself to stillness. He did not trust himself to refrain from causing his brother a true harm if he allowed himself to land that first blow – knowing that Celegorm would answer him in kind, and no holds would be barred from there. “You have passed but moments here, and you have already outlived your welcome.”  
  
“That is well,” Celegorm tilted his head in an inhuman, dangerous motion, smiling his sharp smile all the while. “There is nothing here worthy of our attention, as it is.”  
  
He moved to step forward, and again Curufin restrained him, waiting until Celegorm remounted his horse in order to turn his gaze down at the band he wore on the forth finger of his left hand.  
  
“This is passable craftsmanship,” Curufin said once understanding set in. But, rather than take offense from his brother's words, he knew them for the compliment they were. “If you would have come to me, I would have made something worthy of your hand. And hers,” he added as an afterthought, but the words were spoken nonetheless. Caranthir inclined his head, knowing that would be the last his younger brother said on the mater.  
  
A moment passed, and then Curufin too returned to his horse. Caranthir turned from them both, and did not once look back as they departed.  
  
  
  
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.  
  
**Remembrance**  
  
Before she knew it, a year's time had gone by.  
  
The end of the summer reached Estolad, bringing both hot days and storms, while the nights started to lengthen with the promise of the cold season to come. The fields were being reaped, and stores were being filled; the Haladin as active then as they ever were. On some days, it was all Haleth could do to keep her breath when all was spinning about her.  
  
Of course, it was _he_ who did something to still the frantic pace of her days. In reply, she just stood there – gaping at the veritable blanket of blue aster and purple dragon's mouth that covered most of the available surfaces in her dwelling, and blinking at the small, pleased smile that did not quite encompass the wave of warmth and giddy anticipation she just now realized he had been trying to block from her mind for most of the day. Behind him, he had a veritable feast prepared, and he was dressed in his best, as if -  
  
“You forgot,” he only needed to glance at the wide shape of her eyes to extract the truth from her. She could see the sinking expression he tried to hide from his face, and for a moment she irrationally felt as if she had just kicked a dog who wanted nothing more than a token of her affection.  
  
“No, I did not forget,” she both assured and corrected him at once. “I only thought that . . .” her face flushed, and she could not find her words. “I did not think Elves observed such yearly occurrences,” she tried to awkwardly explain her thoughts, “on account of their having so many years to observe.”  
  
He blinked owlishly at her, and she felt the cool, swirling sensation that normally accompanied him trying to think through her mind, rather than his own – which had gotten them smoothly over quite a few cultural hurdles the past two years, even before she had a bond through which to observe his thoughts.  
  
“In some ways, our centuries demand that we find ways to break up the monotony of time into more feasible increments,” Caranthir finally explained. “We celebrate begetting days for individual persons, as well as the changing of the seasons as a community – no matter how many seasons we have passed upon the earth. And it is not unusual for a married couple to honor the day of their bonding. Even if this were not so,” this he said slowly - carefully, “Such anniversaries are a tradition for _your_ people, are they not?”  
  
“Yes,” she answered, “Such is the tradition amongst Men.”  
  
“Then,” there was still an odd sort of hurt clinging to his features, one that prickled against her senses, “why did you not first tell me? I would have honored your customs, even if such was not the elven way.”  
  
She rolled once on the balls of her feet, ill at ease as she pondered over how to explain the hesitance she had first felt to do so. She had _wanted_ to, but he'd already altered so much of his life for her. She felt hesitance to request even the smallest of things after the enormity of what he had given to her in return. Even so . . .  
  
“Just a moment,” she said instead of answering him. Better would it be to _show_ him, and she left in order to search through the trunk she kept at the foot of her bed. It only took her a moment to find what she searched for – for she had already taken it out, and cleaned and polished it for the vague idea of _in case_. She had even wrapped it in a bright, gay fabric, in the hopes of . . .  
  
“Just because I did not ask you to do so, does not mean that I was not thinking of this day,” she said when she returned to him. She could feel the curve of her cheeks flame, filling with a pink color at Caranthir looked down at the gift in her hands. “Because, I was. And I'd hoped to give this to you.”  
  
Slowly, he took her offering, and pulled the fabric back to reveal a knife – strangely shaped, the blade short and sharply hooked. The width of it from hilt to tip was little more than his hand from fingertip to wrist, and she immediately saw where his eyes turned in curiosity for the strange dagger. The blade was made of a white stone, beaten and polished into a thin shape, but no less sharp than any metal of the forge. The hilt was made from the tusk of some massive beast, unknown to this side of the Blue Mountains, and even Haleth could not answer his questions if he asked as to the material. The weapon was rich and exotic, like nothing known to Elves or Men this side of the mountains.  
  
“I wanted to give you something that you would not be able to find anywhere else,” she explained, unable to help the note of pride that entered her voice for the fascination in his eyes. “Over the mountains, there were quite a few races of Men besides the Three Houses that fled from Hildórien. One race, my grandfather explained to me, was a dark people, who preferred the heat and the sands. He was but a child in those days, but he remembered the bright colours of their dress, the swirling lines of their armor; the bells in their hair and the veils they wore . . . the haunting music they played. My great-grandfather saved the life of one of their chieftains in the earliest days of our kind, and was awarded this knife – which is a ceremonial dagger, symbolic of status – in payment for that life-debt. It has been passed down in my family ever since.”  
  
“This is certainly a most unique gift,” Caranthir said, a note of wonderment in his voice - but he was not looking at the blade as he said so.  
  
Her smile was hesitant as it pulled upon her mouth. “I am glad you think so,” she gave in reply.  
  
She stepped into his embrace with little prompting, once again silently wondering over the way her body tucked in against his. He was so _warm_ in comparison to a man of her own people, and a part of her still knew unease for just how _right_ she felt in moments such as this, how willing she was to give up _everything_ to keep this as her own for as long as she could.  
  
“So, you do not regret your decision?” he asked against the top of her hair, giving voice to the true fear that had lined his thoughts since she'd first arrived. He felt small to her senses in that moment, as if he were trying to present the smallest target possible. She felt something inside of her twist at the thought, and she held on tighter to him.  
  
She inhaled, then thinking about the contentment in her bones and the simple joy she could feel filling her every day. She thought about his respect and admiration, and the fascination she in turn bore for – one she had felt since first meeting him, and never truly expected to fade. She even thought about their bad days – when their rows turned fervent, and her doubts seemed to rise up and consume her . . . she blinked, and remembered it all.  
  
“No, I do not regret my decision,” Haleth finally answered, knowing that she spoke her words as true.  
  
And, for a long time . . . a truth those words would be.


	65. “remember, with fellowship and song”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo & Thorin's Company || Prompt: _Company_ , Free-write

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, my thoughts were _many_ upon seeing BoFA. I went in with an open mind, determined to enjoy it, but, even still, I was just disappointed. If you are interested, I have some thoughts below - filled with a few **SPOILERS** , if you wanted to skip them . . .
> 
> I did not expect the movie to follow canon, so that isn't even my biggest complaint - but things like mixing up the Anduin river with the Celduin river, and fudging Aragorn's age and backstory really, _really_ pressed my buttons in the face of the movie falling short on other fronts. The entire Angmar plotline – and, by extension, the plot with Legolas' mother, which I was _so prepared_ to love - just felt shoehorned in, and made little sense. It did not make sense in the context of the movie - book-canon obviously being set aside - and maybe that was because there was no time to explain anything properly in the film, not when there were so many Orcs to slay instead. So, once again, tried and true elements were taken and twisted to fit Jackson's vision – which I don't mind if it still makes for a cohesive, powerful film - but here, it only managed to fall flat.
> 
> However, once again, my biggest disappointment came with the few, _amazing_ moments of heart and warmth the movie _did_ have being pushed aside for two hours of one massive battle scene - complete with some of the most _ridiculous_ stunts I have ever seen (it got to the point that I cringed whenever Legolas came on screen, wondering what he would do next). Pacing was the movie's main problem, it felt like to me – Smaug's defeat, and the White Council was rushed through (and don't get me started on Galadriel using her ring _alone_ , or the odd Gandalf/Galadriel vibes), while the main battle dragged on seemingly forever - so much so that there was very little time for scenes of rebuilding and closure at the film's end. We did not even get a _funeral_. So, basically, the movie was once again Peter Jackson getting to play with his Orcs, rather than taking the time to create anything more substantial. Which hurts me, because the moments that were good were so, _so_ good – like Thorin's gold-sickness, or any time Bilbo was allowed dialogue, really. And Bard. And Thandui (drama with Legolas aside – which is a whole other rant). Most of the actors were just fantastic, really . . . Yet, twenty good minutes of film isn't enough to justify sitting through a two and a half hour movie with so much violence and carnage. So . . . I am sad, and really missing how Peter Jackson used to portray Middle-earth. Because I do have such a love for that feeling of epic awe he was always able to inspire - along with his knack for portraying such heartwarming bonds between comrades. But this mess of a movie . . . I need fanfiction now. And lots of it.
> 
> That said, there are general **SPOILERS** here if you either haven't read the book, or seen the third movie. So, avoid this update if that is your wish. For everyone else, enjoy. :)

**Company**  
  
The ground was soft and damp underneath his hands, soothing over the one, solitary root with black earth and succoring warmth.  
  
Critically, Bilbo sat back to observe his work, making sure that the soil was firm, but not too firm; that the ground was damp, but not sodden. This spot in the garden was shaded, but not too much so; while the tree was close enough to his door that he would enjoy the shadow of the oak to come, without the roots interfering terribly much with the plumbing. Yes, he scrunched his nose up thoughtfully. This would do quite nicely.  
  
Old Holman had looked at him queerly when Bilbo announced that he wished to tend this piece of his garden alone. Yet, his time away on _holiday_ meant that he was garnering a good many such looks, all judging his state of mind and weighing his every word for any tantalizing bits of information beyond what he chose to tell his neighbors and family. Sometimes, such meddling was exasperating, while oftentimes it was comforting - a quaint affirmation of belonging and _home_.  
  
And yet . . . sometimes, he felt the urge to slip on the golden band in his pocket and simply disappear. _Disappear,_ as the acorn so easily disappeared, folding himself in the dark and sinking his roots into the earth until the storm rattling his branches finally passed. Of course, such thoughts came and went in whispers – tickling his mind like cold wind - and he would often tut at himself for being foolish enough to let the eccentricities of his Took blood overpower him in such instances, before carrying on again.  
  
Young Hamfast Gamgee – gardener Holman's new apprentice, whom had been trying ever so mightily to keep his grass from being trampled during the interrupted sale of his estate – had been eager enough to outline the hows and whys of an acorn becoming a great oak tree, nevermind Holman's suspicions, and Bilbo had followed his instructions to the letter. He patted the soil once more, critically inspected the wry sprite of a sapling before deciding that he would have the lad look over his work when next he returned – just in case he'd missed anything.  
  
In twenty years, this tree just may be producing acorns of its own, he thought – perhaps sooner, with the strange sort of magic that laid over anything and everything at the Carrock. That thought was a worth a smile of its own – wondrous a thing as it was - and so, Bilbo let that novelty fill him, choosing to linger in those pleasant halls of his memories, rather than those other, darker pathways. Paths such as -  
  
There was a sound of movement on the garden path. _Heavy_ movement, which meant that it must have been none other than the rather round and robust Boll Goodchild, who was putting more than the usual effort into overseeing _this_ particular birthday party alongside his cousin Drogo Baggins – which Bilbo would concern himself most mightily with later. However, for now -  
  
“If you come here about linen or cotton napkins; silver or brass dishes; duck, pheasant, or chicken for supper – the answer is that whatever you come up with, I am sure will be _most_ appropriate, I can assure you. For now, I would like to be left alone in peace and _private_ \- as I most specifically asked for when we talked this morning, Boll. For I distinctly remember - ”  
  
“Well, if you aren't in a mood for company, all you had to do was politely say so.” A voice spoke from the garden gate - a voice quite different from Boll Goodchild's pleasant, if slightly too-high, tenor. The voice was quite distinct to his ear, which could only mean . . .  
  
Bilbo turned to see that he had visitors at the gate – dwarvish visitors, nine in number. He looked with wide eyes, seeing Bombur's unmistakable weight, and Bofur's rather telling hat – and his even more familiar smile, he having been the one to speak for the first. Almost greedily – dragon-like in his gaze, Bilbo could not help but think, he took in his companions, looking for who was present, and who was missing. He saw not of Dwalin, whom he assumed had quite the duties to preform at Erebor with the rebuilding and all, but espied a new face in the youngster standing next to Glóin – a red headed lad with wide eyes, quite matching what Bilbo imagined he himself must have looked like when first faced with his many . . . _adventures_.  
  
He tried not to think overly long about _who else_ was missing, pressing his hands once more against the garden soil as his grief settled about him like a blanket. Slowly, painfully, he shrugged that feeling aside with the ease of long practice, determined to let it weigh him down no more.  
  
He stood without realizing that he gave the command to his body, doing quite well to not trip over his own feet as he walked first one step and then two, before being engulfed by embraces and handshakes and introductions to the youth named _Gimli_ – all piling on him until Bilbo felt as if his soul had broken soil to match his sprouting acorn.  
  
“What brings you all the way to Bag End?” he could not keep his smile from splitting his face. In reply, there were nine matching smiles.  
  
“Not _all_ the way,” Bofur admitted. “We are still involved in the quite heavy process of moving what needs to be moved from Ered Luin to Erebor, and were are on our way to meet with our kin once more.”  
  
“Some of us are not quite done with traveling, at that. We still have that longing to seek out our places of old,” Balin said, a gentle twinkling in his warm eyes – a twinkle that also spoke of something _more_ , something which Bilbo reminded himself to most certainly enquire on later. “However,” the elderly dwarf continued, “we remembered the date whilst traveling, and thought to make this call sooner, rather than later.”  
  
“Your birthday _is_ the twenty-second, is it not?” Glóin asked, he being a keeper of all sorts of numbers, and Bilbo nodded in reply, surprised that they remembered. The twenty-second was already a day away, and his stolen moment in his gardens was a form of a calm before the inevitable storm to come.  
  
“Yes,” he answered, the word fumbling from his mouth. “Though I am surprised you know. The last twenty-second of September, I distinctly recall sailing in a _wine-barrel_ and hoping that my not being able to feel my toes did not mean that I was going to lose them to the cold.” He was not wished a good-birthday then, and there most certainly was no time for anything more than that – with the Lonely Mountain being so close, and Thorin's eyes already gleaming with gold as he stood within the shadow of his home.  
  
Bilbo breathed in deep, and let his breath out slow. It was a motion that became easier over time, but only just.  
  
“While we may not have such memorable events to mark the morrow with,” Balin replied in a voice fond with memory, “we did come with gifts. Not only on our behalf, but from those in Erebor and Dale. Even the Elven-king threw in a case of his best Dorwinion wine when he caught wind of where we were heading. Bard's children, in particular, were quite insistent that we safely delivered their gifts. So, perhaps you should open those first.” Balin patted a satchel at his side, and, if anything, the painfully sweet sensation grappling with his heart only intensified.  
  
“Ah, while I am honored – flattered even,” Bilbo said, resting his hands on the straps of his suspenders as he spoke. “But that's the thing. Hobbits . . . we do not receive gifts on our birthdays. Rather, we _give_ them, instead.”  
  
There was a moment of rather stunned silence following his words. Then: “Why, that's one of the silliest notions I've ever heard!” Bofur was the first to exclaim, clearly floored by the idea.  
  
“Well,” Balin was more diplomatic in his reply, “if you would accept these tokens, simply as _tokens_ , we would be glad of your doing so.”  
  
“You _give_ gifts, you say?” Glóin, however, was more frugal than his companions, and his eyes gleamed with the idea of goods passing hands.  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo answered, bemusement filling his voice. “Which is why I would be glad if you all stayed until the morrow. There is to be quite the to-do, you see – for there are still some who do not quite believe that I am still alive, and I wish to put those rumors to rest. I _also_ wish to stow the rumors about my coming back a rich hobbit, especially seeing as how every one of my relatives and neighbors is expecting _quite_ the gift on account of my not having a party last year _and_ having halls overfilling with gold.”  
  
He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I would be glad of a buffer,” he admitted. “And, who knows? You just may stand as proof for my stories – or, better yet, proof of my _eccentricities_.” This, he added with a conspiratorial grin. “And, if that is not reason enough for you to stay - there will be food. Luncheon, tea, dinner, _and_ supper should be served throughout the party - along with a true monster of a cake. So, your stomachs will not go wanting. I do halfway expect Gandalf to show up with his firecrackers, but I cannot quite promise you that - for he had quite the business to attend to when we parted ways this summer.”  
  
Quite understandably, Bombur was the first one to let his pack fall to the ground at the mention of such a feast. The other dwarves were quick to follow suit, and there was then much talk about accommodations and that night's plans for dinner _and_ supper. Already, Bilbo could imagine the look on Boll's face when he was confronted with the extra guests, and _that_ was a picture enough to add a pleased smile to his face. Drogo would have to be the sensible one of the two, and take charge, he reflected with no small amount of humor.  
  
His home was once more a pleasant hub of commotion and life, filling in the gap he had not recognized as being there before. Later in the evening, when he left to check on his acorn - his sapling of an oak tree, just now starting to root itself and grow – he was joined by a heavy hand on his shoulder. When he turned, the weight of missing in Balin's eyes was enough to match what Bilbo felt in his own heart.  
  
“It's growing well, lad,” Balin replied after a moment. “Though I am no expert in things that spring _from_ the ground, you know.”  
  
“It will be a strong tree,” Bilbo agreed, finding his voice curiously thick as he spoke. His eyes burned, but he tried to tell himself that not all tears were evil. He missed his friend, he _mourned_ for him, and yet . . . he remembered. He held the memory of his friend – of _all_ his friends – dear. Never would he forget them.  
  
Not for the first time, he considered putting their story down in words. Such was a tale deserved to be told, he thought, and he had always tinkered with the idea of writing a book -  
  
“We will remember them too,” Balin whispered into his thoughts. His old voice was soft, given more to the oncoming night than to Bilbo.  
  
“Then, they will never be forgotten,” he agreed on a matching whisper, reaching down to fondly touch the growing sapling. Its leaves were healthy and spry, full of energy and life, so much so that he sighed for seeing so it as such. And yet, it was not wholly an unpleasant pain he felt.  
  
However, there were still friends to be hosted inside - with companionship and wine and food to be had – stories, too, for which Bilbo was always more than an able teller. So, he left his grief behind with the dirt and growing things, and went inside to remember those fallen with fellowship and good cheer.  
  



	66. "beneath such drooping boughs"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas & Ensemble || Prompt: _Troublesome_
> 
> This follows up on my Thranduil and Mrs. Thranduil arc from ficlets 50 and 57, and is set about twenty years after my Legolas ficlet in chapter 58. While reading those is not required to understand this piece, it will help - even if you only read the last one. Also, to note, this follows more book-canon than Peter Jackson's canon, so if you see anything 'amiss', that's why. :)

**Troublesome  
  
** The northernmost eaves of the Greenwood echoed with joy and song.  
  
It was a great day, an auspicious day, or, at least it was for the few standing to embrace what it offered. Legolas could not say that he was _apprehensive_ , per say, but his veins did pulse with an eager, restless energy. His fingers tapped against the long knife strapped to his side while he paced the width and length of his place on the forest floor, unable to stand without movement. The trees seemed to thrum in answer to his restlessness, a murmured question filling the sway of their branches as they looked down on those gathered in the clearing below.  
  
By his side, Tauriel was more composed than he. She stood with an easy poise, as if she were a flame trapped on a wick, but the leaping dance of her eyes and the whip's snap of her spirit were as telling as any gesture of her body could have been.  
  
“Still yourself, my friend,” Tauriel at last breathed on a voice equal parts fondness and exasperation. “You are setting my nerves on end.”  
  
“And yet, I am finding movement to better aid with _my_ nerves,” Legolas returned. Nonetheless, he turned to stand still beside her.  
  
This autumn was a milestone in their days, with their both having reached fifty years of age. As such, they were finally of an age to join the Greenwood's guard of march-wardens. To prove their worth for such a place amongst their people, there was a test – _the Trial_ – in which they would be tasked to find three markers hidden in the forest, accessible only through their unraveling a prearranged set of clues. They were then to return to the Great Tree above his father's halls with their tokens in hand – preferably, before the other two teams did, both of which were also looking for entrance into the Greenwood's fighting ranks, and even now eying Legolas and Tauriel with evaluating gazes.  
  
Legolas inclined his head in answer, feeling a sharp rush of anticipation bite through him as he thought of the journey to come. For the competition, and earning his place amongst his peers, he felt little dread; though he was no stranger to unease for the whisper of foreboding that touched disquiet hands against his thoughts before letting him go. That particular apprehension was in part due to the forest itself, even though such a knowing was a painful one to admit. Now twenty years ago, the Wise had decreed that the presence in the south of his father's kingdom was nothing more than a wispy servant of Sauron, trying to return to life within the cursed halls of Dol Guldur. The White Wizard was sure in his opinion, and none were of power enough to second-guess the ruling of Saruman. Even so, his parents had disagreed – subtly at the council, and then openly when they tarried in whispers with both the Grey Wizard and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien and Imladris. Their murmurings were words that Legolas had been shooed away from then, but now . . .  
  
The Greenwood was not as it once was; this was the truth he knew in its simplest form. Now, what should have been a journey that tested their knowledge of the forest and their ability to fend for themselves in the trees shading their home was something greater . . . something _more_.  
  
Nothing was uttered outright, but he could see reflections of his own thoughts in the eyes of those gathered. There were flickers of apprehension and glimmers of disquiet, for the people of the Greenwood were bound to the trees of their home, and they knew as Legolas knew. They could feel as he could feel, and what he _felt_ -  
  
\- he felt a strong hand rest heavily on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. In answer he turned to see his brother smiling fondly down at him. Yet, even in Amathelon's bright gaze there was something strained and shadowed. Legolas could feel it as a discordant whisper against his spirit, even as his brother pushed a wave of calm and encouragement his way, soothing the eager cast of his fëa more thoroughly than any spoken word could hope to do.  
  
“You are as eager an ant upon his hill,” Amathelon tugged on one of his braids in fondness. “And yet, you move your feet when you should instead be taking this moment of calm before the storm for the rest it is.”  
  
“If I am eager, it is only so I may depart and beat _your_ time for this task,” Legolas returned. His brother held the record for the quickest time completing the Trial - over a thousand years ago, now - and every pair of youths since then had endeavored to unseat him from his lofty height.  
  
“Not an ant then, but a spider is my brother before me,” Amathelon teased. “You may try to best me - and I even wish you every bit of the Valar's blessing as you do so, for I intend my victory to be a _decisive_ one.”  
  
“I do not need such favor to triumph over the likes of you,” Legolas held his head up high, and Amathelon laughed in delighted reply to his answer.  
  
“He needs not of the Valar,” Tauriel wryly cut in, stepping forward and raising an auburn brow at the elder prince, “for he has me at his side.”  
  
Amathelon looked all the more amused for her saying so. “Then, when you and your good lady land yourselves in a bog, or are stuck in some impassible gorge, know that we will be right there beyond you. You need only call on us for aid.”  
  
One of the precautions for such a venture into the forest was the young elves partaking of the Trial being discreetly followed by elder warriors. While this was done to evaluate their skills and take note of their strengths and weaknesses, this was also done for their protection - for the forest was not as kind a home as it once had been, and such precautions were all the more necessary as the years passed on by.  
  
“I think that I would rather sink in the bog,” Legolas intoned matter-of-factly, once again pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind.  
  
“Be careful with your words, brother, for I just may let you,” Amathelon again tugged on his braid, but anything further he had to say was interrupted by the sound of a horn, announcing the arrival of a large party. The Trial always had wandering bands of Silvan elves coming in from the corners of the Greenwood to renew their fealty to his father and rejoice with the whole of their kin. Sometimes, there were elves who journeyed all the way from Lothlórien to attend the coming of age ceremonies for the young ones, and their addition was always a joyous one.  
  
This year had garnered more visitors than most – due to the shape of the forest and the cast of the days, Legolas had not strayed far from his father's halls, and there were many of Thranduil's people who were curious for the chance to observe his youngest son. Amongst all of the unfamiliar faces, he was glad to see those he knew amongst the arriving party – Haldir, son of Hadrion, he recognized first, who was enough of a legend amongst the march-wardens for Legolas to feel another rush of apprehension for the journey to come. At the side of the Captain of Lothlórien rode a familiar set of matching faces – for which he was more than glad to see. Their black hair was an oddity amongst the primarily silver and gold heads of those gathered, and the quick cast of their spirits raced against his senses like wildfire, declaring them as:  
  
“Elladan, Elrohir!” Amathelon was quick to greet the two as they dismounted – seeing where they searched the already crowded gathering and correctly interpreting their intentions. “I did not know you'd strayed to this side of the mountains.”  
  
“Familial duty had us in Lothlórien over the summer,” Elladan was the first to push through the crowd to embrace Amathelon. His spirit was more . . . _restless_ than his brother's, which was the only way Legolas had learned to tell the two apart. The twins were hardly a century older than his brother, and as close in friendship as they could be with such a distance separating their homes.  
  
“Which meant that we could not pass this opportunity aside when we heard where so many of our grandparent's folk were heading,” Elrohir finished for his twin, taking Elladan's place as he stepped away from Amathelon. The younger brother traded a significant look with Amathelon, one that Legolas did not quite understand, before the moment passed and the elder of the twins looked his way.  
  
“Which brings me to say . . .” Elladan remarked over Amathelon's shoulder. “The youth in question - this cannot be him?”  
  
Elladan stepped forward to embrace him, clapping his back much as was Amathelon's wont. “Last we met, the top of your head did not yet reach my shoulder,” he mock-lamented, stepping back to better look him over. “Now you are nearly as tall as me. But, what can I say, weeds seem to thrive in the Greenwood, do they not?” He threw a sharp smile at Amathelon with saying so – the friendly barb not meant for him, Legolas understood.  
  
“And yet, I believe that words for his youth are not those he cares to hear when we are here to celebrate this turning point in his years,” Elrohir commented wryly. His voice was softer than his twin's, and the light in his was eyes uncannily warm and knowing. “I offer you my congratulations, Legolas, and pray that the stars now shine on your days to come all the more so.”  
  
“Speaking of growth,” Elladan turned from Legolas to see where Tauriel observed their greetings. “Who is this enchanting creature I see? Can this be Torion's daughter, who seemed to always be underfoot with branches in her hair and mud on her face?”  
  
“Then, as you see neither branches or mud upon my person, I cannot be she,” Tauriel returned in a dry voice, for which Elladan only smiled, delight glittering in his eyes.  
  
“And she bears the tongue to match such a beauty – old enough as she finally is to break hearts from here to Mithlond,” Elladan approved, looking her up and down. “Dear lady, if you ever tire of the trees and the . . . _rustic_ folk who dwell beneath them, I must invite you to journey across the mountains. There is a great world beyond the Greenwood, and if you ever find yourself in need of a guide . . .” his voice tapered off as he flashed her a charming grin, yet Tauriel only rolled her eyes in reply, little impressed.  
  
“ - if that ever comes to be, I believe she will be smart enough to look beyond you, brother,” Elrohir interrupted wryly, turning a significant look upon his twin. “What Elladan means to say is congratulations. Torion would have been proud of his daughter this day.”  
  
“I thank you for saying so, my lord,” Tauriel replied, swallowing visibly as she said so. The forest made dark shapes in her eyes, and Legolas reflexively took a step closer to her, wishing to offer his friend what support he could.  
  
After Saruman's ruling when the Wise gathered Rosgobel, his father had sent a team to further investigate the black fortress rising on the hill of Amon Lanc – wishing to peer into the truth of Björn's words, no matter the decree of the White Wizard. To their great lamentation, they had underestimated the strength of the fell specter rooted in those stones, and few had returned alive from that expedition. Amongst the fallen were Tauriel's parents, and while Legolas knew a selfish gratitude for growing alongside her when his own parents took her in, he could still feel the grief that lingered with that parting, and he mourned for her pain.  
  
Yet, anything further said between them would have to wait as the horn announced another arrival – this time of the Greenwood's monarchs. Legolas could _feel_ his father's presence, even before he could properly see him. He stood up straighter, the anxious, eager feeling in his chest picking up pace a hundred fold in reply. He wanted so badly to do well this day, not wholly for his own name, but rather for the names he was born of. He wanted to be a source of pride for Thranduil, as much as Amathelon was, and that wanting was a burning thing inside of him.  
  
All those gathered in the clearing bowed in respect, and Legolas was no exception to that rule. In a way, it was instinctual for him to bend his head and incline his knee - for his father carried a weight of spirit about him that was all the vast years of his life and the mesmerizing sort of power that befitted one of the oldest names amongst their people. Thranduil ever ghosted across his senses like a cold storm, drawing his eye like a mirror with his endeavoring to someday be his father's reflection in all things. In comparison, his mother was like the forest itself against his senses; something filled with green light, as if touched by Yavanna's own hand. Together they made an ethereal and regal pair, and the people of the Greenwood had so far flourished underneath their reign.  
  
They was bidden to rise, and though he would deny the warmth that filled him when his mother tilted his head down so that she could kiss his brow, a warmth still it was. “This day, you have made a very proud mother of me, no matter the outcome of your trial,” Calelassel whispered for his ears alone, her eyes more green than blue as they glittered in the forest light. “Be safe, my son, and do well.”  
  
Legolas glanced over at Tauriel, feeling where her spirit wavered as she watched him interact with the Queen. Her face gave nothing of her inner thoughts away, but he could only imagine what she was thinking, not having her own parents there to celebrate this day with her. Just as quickly as the thought ghosted across his mind, Calelassel turned to do the same to the younger woman as she had to him – leaning down to kiss Tauriel's brow, before tilting her chin up to whisper words that Legolas could not quite hear. Whatever she said had Tauriel blinking, as if fighting back some strong emotion, but he could see not of the tell-tale glimmer of tears in her eyes. In the wake of the Queen's words, Tauriel's hand made a fist about the hilt of her dagger. Her jaw was set, and something fierce resonated from her spirit – so much so that Legolas almost felt pity for the other teams . . . almost.  
  
His father did not come forward to offer his well wishes, not that Legolas much expected him to. Instead, Thranduil merely nodded after looking him over, and Legolas only felt the telling brush of his spirit against his own in a wordless flash of approval before that too faded away.  
  
What happened from there was mostly ritualistic as Thranduil spoke to those gathered about the honor of watching young ones grow, and the welcome they had in his kingdom now that they were old enough to take their proper places in that order. He spoke then about the roles of the Guard, and the honor that came with protecting their people and their borders, before finishing with words for their great forest home. The trees seemed to turn their ears to his speech, and the ground all but trembled in approval of the Forest-lord's power. In that moment, ground as they all were by his father's bond with the land, he felt apart of the deep roots and high boughs to the point where he was ready to face anything that the Trial could think to set upon them. Not only was he ready; he was eager.  
  
When he and Tauriel took their places on the starting line with the other two teams, he looked and saw that he was not the only one receiving such a welcome from the forest. Yavanna's light was bright in all of their eyes, and his spirit seemed to soar in answer to her call.  
  
Then, a horn was blown, and they were off - racing into the forest and away from the other two teams, running until they were out of sight of Thranduil's halls. In a calm glade, with only the green of the forest surrounding them, he and Tauriel took out their map, ready to decipher the clues that would lead them to their first target.  
  
And, thus so, the race began.  
  
  
  
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Only moments passed before the elder members of the Guard discreetly melted into the forest-shadow to follow the young ones. Calelassel watched where her eldest son inclined his head, and she pushed him forward with a warm wave of acknowledgment against his spirit. At his side, the twin Peredhil too looked up before bowing – they understanding well the reason they had been called, even without such words being expressly spoken.  
  
At her side, her husband watched her with narrowed eyes, as if pondering over a riddle. “I did not realize that you had sent for reinforcements,” he remarked. She could not tell the line in his voice for teasing or question, choosing instead to hear both.  
  
“I would not do so in such words,” she replied. Slowly, she blinked, as if she had no idea of what he was trying to imply.  
  
“And yet,” Thranduil inclined his head towards her as they turned from where the forest swallowed their young ones away, “in your last letter to the Silver Lady, did you mention . . .”  
  
“I may have alluded to Celebrían that my son was about to undertake the Trial, yes,” Calelassel replied. “Her own sons being in Lothlórien not much later was simply a remarkable coincidence.”  
  
“They will not be needed,” Thranduil said, tilting up his chin arrogantly as he said so. “Your doing so was an unnecessary precaution.”  
  
“I trust the Guard of the Greenwood, more so than any other in this land,” Calelassel went on to say. “I, however, did not want it to seem as if I was playing favourites by placing my son's protection so high. If a family friend, or two, just so happened to be available to follow with Amathelon, then -”  
  
“ - I was not speaking about the abilities of our Guard,” Thranduil interrupted smoothly. “I was referring to Legolas himself. There is nothing in this forest that he will not be able to rise against as an equal, and conquer. He is, after all, my son.”  
  
Calelassel looked steadily at him, she hearing his words clearly where few others would think them to be a thought. “Careful, dear one, of speaking too loudly, else-wise he may just hear his father singing such praises.”  
  
Thranduil shrugged, as if her words were sky-water dripping to fall harmlessly off the leaves of a tree. “He hears what he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it,” he remarked. “No more, and no less.”  
  
She stared at her husband, seeing where not a crack of feeling broke through the serene planes of his face. Ever was there a careful mask he presented to their people, as he was ever acutely aware of the eyes following them both. Even so, she could feel where he passed a wave of mock-annoyance to her through their bond – their differing opinions over how much to give a child, and when, ever a centuries old disagreement between them.  
  
“And yet,” she said, dropping her voice to whisper, “the Greenwood . . . she sings, but there is a note of discord to her song. I fear not of what they stand to face from the forest itself, but what they shall encounter from the Shadow that even now thinks to share our eaves.” Her words were the only way she could think to explain her worries; her fears and deep seeded concerns. Above them, a cool wind blew through the high branches, and she turned into the embrace of the forest, needing the reassurance of the boughs of the Great Tree, swaying high above them.  
  
“Their path will take them no further south than the Narrows,” Thranduil answered her concerns, though she could clearly see where he held himself stiffly in reply to her words. A muscle moved high in his throat, and she read what he did not say from his skin. “They will remain far from that cancerous place.”  
  
“Even so,” she was not quick to agree, “what festers at Dol Guldur . . . it pushes ever northward as the years go on. Someday, I fear . . .” and yet, such fears were a tired topic between them, uttered to the point of exhaustion. There was nothing she could say that he did not know, just as there was nothing he feared that she did not feel as a matching disquiet, held marrow-deep in her bones.  
  
“I know,” Thranduil whispered. “Your dread is my own, and yet . . .”  
  
He said no more than that. Instead, he waited until they reentered the halls, letting the shadows of an empty corridor hide his leaning down to rest his brow against her own. As always, she took strength from his presence, from the eternal glow of his spirit, determined as she was that no threat could touch them when they were bound so together. She reached up, and touched the sides of his face, the cool fall of his hair, solidifying herself on his light when all was darkening around them.  
  
Beyond their halls, the forest continued to sing, and yet, Calelassel could not help but feel as if she sounded as if she were struggling for breath. The Greenwood was drowning - _dimming_ \- and someday . . .  
  
But that day was still a day far away. For now . . . she merely held her head up high, and uttered a quick prayer to the Valar to watch over her son. That said, there was nothing more for them to do than to wait . . . wait, and endure.  
  
  
  
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The forest raced by with a quiet breath of sound.  
  
Amathelon knew his home, and knew it well; every root and tree as familiar to him as his own name this close to his father's halls. Overhead, the old souls in the wood barely stirred at their passing, while the young saplings looked on in curiosity, tilting their leaves and threading their branches to better let them through. Somewhere, far above the thick canopy of interlocking boughs, the day was bright and cloudless. The sunlight streamed downs in waves of green and golden light, turning the forest aglow with its touch. For a moment, it was almost enough to let them pretend that the ancient wood was nothing more than dancing leaves and strong limbs; untouched and unsullied. For a moment, it was as if . . .  
  
But, Amathelon was determined to let no such musing cloud his mind - not this day. Instead, he forced his thoughts to remain on his brother and Tauriel as they made their way through the trees, already successfully heading in the direction of their first marker. Amathelon had seen their clues, and knew that they were vague riddles, requiring a keen mind and a deep knowledge of the forest to solve. However, their first hurdle was doing little to slow their stride.  
  
Following close behind him, Elrond's sons bore their Sindarin blood as a distant memory of Thingol's might. Even so, they kept up with his quick pace with very little difficulty, the oldest trees in the forest bowing to the memory of that which they felt passing below their boughs. A shadow there may have been upon the Greenwood, but the light still reigned supreme amongst so many deep roots, and it would continue to do so until -  
  
“Your brother stands to beat even your illustrious time if he keeps this up,” Elladan was the one to remark when they at last slowed their pace. They had climbed up to the middle-most branches of one of the thickly interwoven trees, observing from on high as the young ones sorted through their riddles below.  
  
“If he manages such a feat,” Amathelon inclined his head, “I can think of no one worthier to abdicate my title to.”  
  
In the dappled light, Elladan's smile was soft, he well understanding the unique sort of pride and fondness one could feel for a younger sibling. Yet, at his side, Elrohir was little invested in their words. Rather, he looked at the trees themselves, his eyes blind to the two they were supposed to be watching below. His hand was splayed full against the bark of the tree, and when he breathed, his breath was slow with his concentration. Amathelon swallowed, knowing full well what the other would feel if he but opened his senses to feel the condition of the wood.  
  
“Much has changed since the days when you took your Trial,” Elrohir muttered, his pale eyes very bright in the forest shadows.  
  
“In more ways than one,” Amathelon acknowledged. He fought the urge he had to run a hand through his hair in frustration, wanting to keep himself still and unnoticeable from the two below. “The forest . . . she is not as she once was.”  
  
“Her song is much the same,” Elrohir again pressed his fingertips to the tree bark. “Yet, it is as if there is someone singing _with_ her. A discordant note disrupts her harmony, but only just enough to be known to my ears, rather than heard clearly.”  
  
“And that song is a discord that grows all the more so with each passing year,” Amathelon acknowledged grimly. “Once was, we could hear it not at all this far north, but now . . . Shadow rises from the old fortress in the south, and with it there are strange creatures and even stranger shapes in the dark. We fight back the creatures as best we can, but what are we to do against the intangible? The forest sickens, and we may do naught but watch her.” His voice filled with a hard note, angry and pained for the forest that had shaded his birth and succored his every year since.  
  
Elrohir's eyes were very soft, and Amathelon could feel a blue warmth touch his spirit in the vaguest of encouragements. He acknowledged the gift of strength and comfort for what it was, and sighed as he leaned back against the tree.  
  
“The White Wizard is convinced that it is nothing more than a fell spirit of old trying to take shape once more; one without power enough to take on full form, or influence the forest any more than he already has. And yet . . . it is _more_ than that. We _know_ such a truth to be so – which you can now feel as well as I. When Saruman returns from his wanderings in the East, my father means to press the Wise to gather again. He will not let matters stand where they are now.”  
  
Slowly, Elrohir nodded at his words, while Elladan only sighed. “In the meantime,” he asked carefully, “what do your people intend to do?”  
  
“We will simply continue on as well as we can, and endure,” Amathelon answered, a pinched smile forcing its way onto his mouth. “Not all of us have Rings of Power protecting our realms, you know.”  
  
Elladan snorted. “I do not think that Thranduil Oropherion would take one were it offered to him.”  
  
“No,” Amathelon acknowledged after a heartbeat, somewhat ruefully. “No, he would not.”  
  
“Are your people in any way prepared to depart from the Greenwood?” Elladan asked. “If the wood darkens – already it is called _Mirkwood_ by the Northmen, and if the sons of Men can feel what turns to rot underneath their feet . . .”  
  
“No,” Amathelon's answer was decisive, a hard feeling filling his voice for saying so. “No . . . we will not flee. This is my father's realm, as it was my grandfather's realm before him. The Silvan who live here have lived here since the Great Journey, and know little else of the world but for the trees they are bound to at the soul.” He paused, before asking with a firm voice: “Would you leave your valley if the Shadow touched it? Would your grandparents abandon Lothlórien – never-mind that the Lady of Light moved to Caras Galadhon for watching Dol Guldur as the shadow grows . . . Could you leave your homes behind, or would you stand and hold them until you had not of the breath left within you to do so?”  
  
Elladan did not answer, but he did not have to – Amathelon could see the dark, fierce look that filled his eyes, and he knew that they understood. In some ways, the blood of the Wood-elves made it as impossible for them to leave their trees as it was for a Dwarf to forsake their ancestral homes. Their homes _were_ their souls, so much so that few of their people ever felt the natural pull to turn towards the far off Valinor in the west. No. The roots of their home were those that grew to pierce their very souls, and few would ever be able to bring themselves to sunder that bond.  
  
As if sensing his discord, he felt as the tree they were in curled its branches as if to better shelter him from the shadow even now touching its roots. There was a mournful note to its song, and Amathelon touched his fingers to the bark, assuring the wood of his well-being. He felt as strength filled him in reply, rooting him to his place.  
  
“For now,” Amathelon gathered himself as Legolas and Tauriel found their first marker in the forest below. Pride filled him as he smiled, feeling the look for the truth it was. “We will simply continue on, much as we ever have, and watch our young ones as they grow.”  
  
  
  
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Night fell quickly in the forest.  
  
They went for as long as they could before traversing the forest became more perilous than advantageous – a decision that was helped along by a rather close call with the very same bog Amathelon had jested over earlier. For the most part, they had followed the River of Enchantment during the day, careful not to touch its waters as they made their way further and further south. In days gone by, the water of that river revealed memories and dreams, but as the forest turned, the effects of the river became unpredictable in shape, and few drank of its depths now. Their path took them directly to the Emyn Duir – the mountains which had housed Oropher's original halls, and in which Legolas himself had been born, now some fifty years ago.  
  
Only twenty years had passed since they abandoned Oropher's halls to make their home in the north of the forest, and already the wild had done much to reclaim what was its own. Now, the familiar markers of the Elven-king's halls were covered by vines and weeds. Saplings started to push their way up through the cobbled paths, and moss and flowering lichen decorated the statues and columns surrounding them. They took shelter for the night in what used to be an ornate courtyard – not trusting the ill-repair of the mountain-halls to venture further underground than that. In many ways, their memories were as tangible as the shadows as they moved wordlessly together in order to prepare for the night. Tauriel had been quiet and quieter still the closer they had come to the mountains, and now she did not even glance his way, lost to her own thoughts as she was.  
  
Her parents had not lived long enough to see their new home, deep underneath the roots of the Great Tree, and her face was creased with memories as she peered into a past he could not see.  
  
Legolas took it upon himself to portion out their rations for the night. They brought little with them - for half of the challenge was in their living off of the land during their time away from Thranduil's halls - but he decided that they could hunt or fish upon the morrow. Even so, Tauriel did not much seem to notice what he placed before her. She ate only because her body told her she had to, and her eyes and thoughts remained far beyond him.  
  
She laid down on her back when she was finished with half-heartedly picking at her meal, staring up at the blackness of the forest canopy overhead, where the branches of the trees stretched to cover the empty place they had carved out for their own. Legolas was not yet tired, no matter that they had journeyed far in one day – even for the speed and stamina of the Elves - and he now looked over their map and clues again by the light of the fire, turning over the riddles in his mind, until -  
  
“The stars are out tonight,” Tauriel remarked, still unblinking as she looked above.  
  
Legolas glanced, but could only see the shadow of the thick canopy overhead, softly underlit by the fire's glow. “I cannot see them,” he said, his voice soft in reply.  
  
“Neither can I,” she agreed, her eyes still peering further than the trees. “Yet, I know that they shine.”  
  
He was silent for a long moment, unsure of what to say in reply - unsure if words were even needed in return. He knew that she spoke of more than the hidden heavens, and as best he could, he pushed a wave of support and comfort her way. Rather than pretend that she was more than her grief, Tauriel accepted the warmth he offered and turned to flash him the smallest of smiles.  
  
“I do not mean to imply that I am less than grateful for your parents taking me in,” she went on to add. “For I _am_ grateful; truly. It is as much to repay their kindness that I wish to do well on this task, as much as I wish to honor my own . . .” her words tapered off, though he did not need words to understand what she meant to say. She faltered, and could not again find her speech.  
  
It did not matter. He reached over, and covered her hand with his own. In the warm light from the fire, her eyes were as sunlight over tree-bark, warm and earthen and _home_. He watched where she took in a deep breath against her thoughts. Slowly, she exhaled.  
  
“I agree. There is a bright dance in the heavens this night,” Legolas said, his voice soft to his own ears. Seemingly pushing in around them, the forest was then very quiet, and very still. The clearing held ghosts, it was true, but they were no vengeful spirits with greedy hands seeking to snare and grab. Instead, the memories the trees held were warm. He saw where she breathed in with her missing, where she let her longing embrace her as something soft and pleasing to the touch. Then, she blinked, and she was once more as _Tauriel_ to his eyes.  
  
She turned from her back, propping herself up on one elbow in order to peer at the maps he had spread out before him. “May I see that third clue again?” she summoned with no small determination. “I think that I may have an idea of what it means.”  
  
  
  
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They passed five days in the forest before coming upon the Narrows of the Greenwood. Once was, the whole of the forest had been vaguely oblong in shape, with the width of the forest from east to west staying much the same from south to north. However, when the Northmen took to harvesting lumber from the Greenwood in the Second Age, they took too much, too quickly, and crippled a great area of the forest as a result. That empty, barren bruise in the Greenwood was now known as the East Bight, leaving only a narrow neck of the forest to connect the Southern Greenwood with the North, and thus coining its name.  
  
While his father had not dwelt in the Greenwood during that time of over-harvesting, his mother had been the Captain of Oropher's archers when his folk lived on the hill of Amon Lanc. The Elven-king had quarreled mightily with the Northmen over their desecration of the forest, and due to the tenacity of the enraged Silvan elves, they had driven a majority of the Men away to found lands of their own – most retreating to break off as the ancestors of those who were now known as the Rohirrim, or to the land of Rhovanion, just to the east of the Greenwood. Rhovanion was a proper kingdom of its own now, an ally to the Men of Gondor in the south, and the Northmen who still dwelt in the forest lived with the land in harmony - for the most part. There were still times when his father intervened when the Men did not observe the proper laws of husbandry, but the number of Men living in the forest had depleted over the years - and for more than the Forest-king's guardianship of the trees.  
  
_Mirkwood_ , Amathelon thought of the Edain's title with a grimace, finding the name as an ill taste to his tongue.  
  
Though he did not expect to find anything untoward in the Narrows, he still kept an open eye on their surroundings. He had been with the Guard when they scouted this area of the forests for the Trial, and that was not even a turn of the moon ago. Nothing would have so quickly appeared where they sought to make their way clear.  
  
Even so, there was a feeling of unnamed dread overhead, as if they walked underneath a sky of dark clouds rather than the comforting embrace of the trees. There was a sour taste on the back of his tongue, and against his senses something untoward whispered, carrying with it the disquiet sensation of soft fingertips dragging up and down his spine in warning.  
  
When Legolas and Tauriel came upon their last marker, Amathelon was glad. He did not care to be in this part of the forest for any longer than they had to be.  
  
South and south they went, the trees turning to twisted shapes overhead, and the green, healthy leaves turning to sickly shades of purple and grey. There was still healthy growth next to that which was decayed, but the rot was too much - too much, too fast - and something in his own spirit seemed with wither and wilt along with the forest surrounding him. His own temper was restless, and he found it hard to hold on to soft words and a clear disposition underneath the gloom surrounding them – for which Elladan and Elrohir observed with troubled eyes, their mixed blood saving them from feeling the pain of the forest too acutely.  
  
It was not until their second day in the Narrows that they came upon a disquieting sight – a glimmer of gossamer, hanging down from one of the highest boughs in the wood. Amathelon had seen that tell-tale sign too many times as of late, and he knew that it was one he stood to see many more times still.  
  
They turned from Legolas and Tauriel to see more of the cursed strands binding together the high boughs, seeking to trap, to _snare_ . . .  
  
“I was with the Guard when we scouted this part of the forest for the Trial, less than a moon ago,” Amathelon hissed in a terse voice. “They have again built their webs just that quickly.”  
  
“You have encountered these creatures before?” Elladan asked, his eyes widening with his words.  
  
“Yes,” Amathelon answered, frustration welling in his voice. “And we have done so more than once, at that. Each time we fight them away they come back, venturing further and further north as they do so.”  
  
He glanced back at the way he knew Legolas and Tauriel to be. With any luck, they would simply retrieve their marker and make their way back north – safely retreating from the danger in the woods without having known about it at all. They would remain ignorant and protected, while he . . .  
  
“The young ones will keep,” Elladan said, his keen eyes seeing his thoughts and agreeing. “This, however - ”  
  
“ - will not,” Elrohir finished for his twin, standing with his bow already drawn in one hand and an arrow in the other.  
  
For a long moment, he stood, caring little for the taking of either path. And yet, at long last, Amathelon sighed and reached for his own weapons, then turning to once again confront the taint infecting the forest.  
  
  
  
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Their last task came in the shape of a flag that rested on the opposite side of a wide gorge – the bottom of which Legolas could scarcely see when looking down for the floor below. They were hard pressed to make a bridge with the discrepancy of heights between the two sides. and they had no trees to aim at and sink their arrows in deep – only stone. However, they were able to settle an anchor on the opposite side after much effort, and it was a relatively easy task to build a rope bridge and cross nimbly to the other side.  
  
For the most part, they were quiet upon completing their task - for the discordant note in the forest's song was louder here, and neither he or Tauriel much cared to linger where night fell earlier than the setting of the sun due to the thick expanse of the drooping trees. Even more worrying was the steady flicker he was able to feel from his brother's spirit, somewhere beyond them. He had known Amathelon as a soft presence throughout the whole of his journey, imparting neither criticism or encouragement, but steadily being _there_ nonetheless. Now . . . now he felt _nothing_ , as if the other was consciously blocking his awareness, and that thought was an unsettling one to him.  
  
They did not rest that night, and not only for wanting to rid themselves of the Narrows – for, if they wanted to make it back to Thranduil's halls in time to beat Amathelon's record, they would have to move quickly. So, they set out north as the sun set, trusting their instincts and knowledge of their home to guide them where they needed to go.  
  
Neither slowed long enough to speak, the knowledge that they wanted to be beyond the Narrows as quickly as possible a shared thought between them. Though he logically knew that the forest had been searched for anything untoward before their journey began, his senses were on edge; searching . . . expecting . . .  
  
It was not until they paused in their step to take a moment's rest that they felt it. His palm was splayed flat against the trunk of the nearest tree, a tree that seemed to moan as if in pain. He listened, trying to find . . .  
  
“Legolas,” Tauriel was the one to first whisper, understanding dawning upon her. “There is something in the trees . . . very high above our heads.”  
  
He could not see anything, though his eyesight was just as keen as hers. Yet, while he could not yet _see_ anything, he could hear . . .  
  
Voices . . . calling out from above.  
  
They only had to circle around the tree to see white strands of silky twine dripping down from the branches overhead, layering dozens of trunks like soft wads of newly fleeced wool. Not wool, he amended his thoughts, but rather, _silk_.  
  
“Spider-silk,” Tauriel hissed, her voice a fierce sound. “Then, above are -”  
  
“Foresters,” Legolas felt the tell-tale sparks of light that ever accompanied the souls of Men. “Almost a dozen of them, caught when straying where they ought not.”  
  
“Northmen,” Tauriel suggested alternately, her eyes narrowed, “Whose homes have been invaded as surely as our own.”  
  
He sighed, already reaching for the knife waiting at his side. While he felt little kinship with the sons of Men - rather, he knew them primarily by the scar they had left on his home - the determined light in Tauriel's eyes was not to be swayed. This he knew from long experience.  
  
. . . and, if he was truly honest with himself, he did not want to dissuade her. The forest was home to more than just his kindred, and someday, if the shadow at Dol Guldur continued to grow . . .  
  
This would no longer be solely the fight of the Elves, he let the truth of that thought fill him. There was no way for it to remain as such.  
  
With but a glance, Tauriel understood his choice, and approved of it.  
  
“While not a scripted task - ” she started to say in an attempt to lighten their plight.  
  
“ - it is most certainly a trial,” Legolas gave, grimly glancing at the boughs above them.  
  
And a trial it was even to climb to the summit of the webs. The trees were covered with the sticky substance, and little of the bark was left for them to find handholds and footholds. All the while they waited in expectation for the sound of scurrying steps . . . of mandibles clicking and eight eyes blinking . . . Yet, naught was the threat that came. There was only silence in the trees, all but for the muffled sounds of the struggling Men, still some ways above their heads.  
  
Higher and higher they went, climbing to where the branches were brittle and the leaves were dull and grey so far from where the roots of the trees stubbornly held on to light and _life_. Somewhere, the stars were out, but their light was nothing in the shade provided by the canopy. Instead, all was night. All was shadow.  
  
By the time they made their way to the Men, they still had seen not of the spiders, and his senses were strained trying to make out a foul presence in the trees. He felt _something_ , lingering right beyond his reach, but that something was simply lurking . . . waiting . . .  
  
Feeling as if there was something more he was missing, Legolas ascended that last branch to see that his estimation had been correct. There were twelve of the Northmen trapped in cocoons made by the silky fiber of the webs. He could vaguely see their struggling limbs and hear their frantic voices through the mesh covering their faces. Wide eyes followed his and Tauriel's movements, but it was not until he cut the first man free that he understood that the eyes were not wide in terror for their situation, but rather, in warning.  
  
“They were waiting,” the Man wheezed in heavily accented Annúnaid. Behind him, he heard the Men speak to each other in their own tongue, a harsher language than the Common Tongue, but one he knew bits and pieces of from his own schooling.  
  
“Waiting?” Legolas asked in kind, even as a flicker of understanding settled in.  
  
“There were others in our party,” the Man was hasty to explain. “They thought that if they left us here, seemingly unattended . . .”  
  
_Seemingly_ , Legolas understood the man's words with a flash of insight, that nameless sense of dread he knew during their climb now taking on a definitive shape and meaning.  
  
“Tauriel,” he swiftly turned to address her in Sindarin, “The Spiders, they were merely waiting for -”  
  
He did not have to say anything aloud before a long shoot of webbing struck the trunk of the tree, aimed for where he had stood a moment earlier. He ducked the second strand, and cut a third free with his knife, his spirits sinking when he realized just _how many_ of the Spiders were waiting in the boughs above. It was not only the Spiders that gave rise to his trepidation, but the Men themselves – for they were disoriented and dizzy this high in the trees, and they had little balance with which to make the long climb down - let alone fight and defend themselves as they did so. And fight with what? he wondered then. They had no bows, no swords; just their wide, terrified eyes, and their spirits like flames against his senses, granting them fortitude and stubborn determination enough to see them through whatever he decided for them to do.  
  
_What he decided_ , he then felt the yoke of responsibility fall upon his shoulders with a heavy weight. Even Tauriel looked to him to decide, to _lead_ , and he swallowed against that knowledge, suddenly unsure now that the moment was placed upon him.  
  
And yet, there were few options to be had to them, and there was only one choice he was comfortable with absolutely – no matter the cost it would think to extract.  
  
“Take the Men and climb down to the forest floor,” he ordered swiftly, moving to stand as a shield as the Spiders drew closer and closer to them – no longer bothering to strike from afar when they could instead overwhelm in numbers. Their mandibles clicked like laughter as they hissed and sputtered with their own black speech, and Legolas felt his mouth make a thin line as he drew his bow, determined to make a showing for himself.  
  
_“No!”_ Tauriel was swift to disagree. In a moment of déjà vu, he remembered their encountering the Skin-changer in the woods outside Radagast's dwelling. This situation was not so different now, he tried to tell himself. “I will not leave you to - ”  
  
_“Tauriel!”_ he spoke her name as a command. “We have not the time to waste in quarreling.”  
  
She set her mouth in an angry line, clearly displeased with his decision; but she understood, and this time he did not have to command her to obey.  
  
Instead, she reached for the quiver on her back and grabbed a significant portion of her arrows to hand to him. “Use them wisely,” she warned. “You will not have many to waste.”  
  
Sharply he nodded, not taking the moment to answer her before turning to the Men to say in their tongue: “Follow her down. Go as quickly as you can!”  
  
He did not need to tell them twice. Though a few clearly balked at the height and looked in worry at the webs coating their climb, climb still they did, and Tauriel spared only a glance for him before turning to cover their escape. He felt a last brush of her fëa, fortifying and encouraging his own, and then he turned in time to meet the first Spiders as they reached his place in the tree.  
  
While these were not quite mindless beasts – they had some higher thought, if they plotted enough to set such traps – they were easy enough to kill. Their bodies were massive and fast, but their eyes were vulnerable, and their exoskeletons did little to protect them against elven strength. He tried to fell as many as he could with his short knife, saving his arrows for when he truly needed them, but he burned through his weapons regardless as the Spiders continued to pour down from up above.  
  
As soon as he felt that Tauriel safely made it down to the forest floor, he turned to flee into the next tree, and then the next – pleased when the Spiders turned to follow him. If he could but draw them away, and then lose them himself . . .  
  
His thoughts raced, but as he instinctively blocked a wave of spider-silk, aimed for his face, the Spider yanked and his knife flew from his grasp before he could even think to tighten his grip. He had only his arrows now, dwindling as they were, and though it seemed that he'd killed dozens of the beasts, dozens more kept pouring in with their horrible voices and their discordant press against his spirit – which was proving to be more disorienting than the threat of their fangs and webs. He winced, trying instead to focus on the tree he stood in, feeling what strength it had left in its old limbs and asking it to aid him for just a little while longer . . .  
  
For he soon loosed his last arrow, and warily stood as the Spiders moved in all the more so after that, thinking themselves to now have an easy target, a _defenseless_ target.  
  
If such was Námo's will for him, he thought that he did not mind such an end. While his situation was dire, he was not wholly without means to fight - he still had his hands, his sure place in the tree as the spirit of the wood cried in sorrow for his pains. For such, he was still a foe to be reckoned with.  
  
Legolas stilled, feeling the bark beneath his hands sing as if in welcome. The trees fluttered, greeting -  
  
\- as soon as he understood what the trees were saying, he felt a burst of awareness against his spirit. An angry burst of protection and fortitude washed over him, just as the whistling noise of striking arrows rained down from above. The Spiders recoiled from the new threat – their easy meal suddenly something _more_ when faced with the fury of three elven warriors, each well into their years and fierce for the lineage of their names.  
  
Legolas simply leaned back against the trunk of the tree and let relief fill him as the threat was done away with, not bothering with words until they safely on the ground some time later. In the aftermath of the battle, his limbs felt boneless and his heart was hammering with spent adrenaline. Such was his first time ever facing a foe as such, and he felt winded and strangely restless at the same time, the urge to sink to his knees in exhaustion at odds with the urge he still had to move, to _fight_ , ill as his body was to let him rest before he was sure that the threat was wholly gone.  
  
“It certainly took you long enough to show up,” Legolas breathed with a nonchalance he did not really feel when Amathelon turned to him - an unadulterated relief filling him for the sight of his brother's face. Punctuating his words, he heard a sick, squelching sound as the twins finished with their last foes in the canopy above. He listened as they too made their way down to the forest floor, seeing them leap from the lower branches with matching expressions of satisfaction on their identical faces a moment later.  
  
“That would not have been much of a _trial_ , then, would it not?” Amathelon's words were made to jest, but Legolas could see the worry on his face – the concern mingled with the relief - and he allowed the other to pull him into a quick embrace in reply.  
  
The Peredhil were still searching the branches above, not yet content with the peace, and it was Elladan who asked, "Where is Tauriel?"  
  
"Escorting a dozen or so Men we found in the webs," Legolas answered. He felt a telling brush against his spirit, and said: "They come this way," just as he heard a rustling in the underbrush, declaring the arrival of the others.  
  
Tauriel's sharp eyes were quick to find him out, and rather than asking him how he fared he felt the quick cast of her spirit, searching him over for any harm before she nodded, clearly relieved with her findings. He raised a brow, and asked, "Did you doubt me so much?"  
  
"I cared not for the numbers you faced, no," she answered honestly. "Yet, I did not once _doubt_ you." The pale brown of her eyes filled with something warm as she smiled. "I am, however, glad that you found aid in your fight."  
  
She turned, and Amathelon inclined his head in reply. "We would have been here sooner, but we were busy clearing out a nest of our own - we seemed to find where they breed, and destroyed enough of their eggs that we hope that the Narrows will know some time free of taint while they recover in the south." He frowned, clearly troubled, but that was a discussion that would continue another time.  
  
He turned from them, and looked at the Men, who were still wide eyed with both their peril and their deliverance. Their words were full of thanks as they spoke of others they had lost, and briefly outlined where they were headed. Amathelon inclined his head at the end of their speaking, and offered: “It would be our honor to see you and yours as far as the East Bight. From there on your path should be clear."  
  
The Men were quick to accept their aid, and plans were made to seek out their companions and then travel through the night - with not a one amongst them much caring to sleep underneath the ruined nests, no matter how cleared of filth they were.  
  
“I will most certainly not beat your time now,” Legolas pointed out as they readied to leave. Amathelon again wrapped an arm about his shoulders, but Legolas was slow to shrug away from his embrace.  
  
“No, technically you will not,” Amathelon acknowledged. “And yet, I do believe you surpassed my showing in another way – and most impressively, at that.”  
  
Legolas looked at the Men when Amathelon gestured, smiling now as they organized themselves, the heady security of relief and safety making kindred spirits of them all in that moment. Questions were asked about the condition of the forest, and the Peredhil answered the Men as best they could. The forest was sick, but they were fighting that taint, as they ever would, and rather than feel ill at ease within his home - wary of the dark pathways and disdainful of the drooping boughs - he felt his place, his _belonging_ settle in more than he had known it to be before. This was his home, _his home_ , and he would help to heal it in the years to come, through any way he could.  
  
“You are a credit to our father's name, to our grandfather's name,” Amathelon followed the turn of his thoughts as if he had uttered them aloud. His arm tightened about his shoulders as his bright eyes held the green of the forest's spirit deep within his gaze. “I am proud to call you my brother.”  
  
"And your brother I am proud to be," Legolas returned, holding his gaze as he said so. Amathelon let him go a moment later, tugging on his braid one more time in fondness before he wholly let him go.  
  
"Now," he said, turning an appraising eye on their group. "Let us see how far we can make it this night. I have a care to leave these trees behind that I believe to be shared by all those here."  
  
And so, they turned, and left the stain on the forest behind, trusting the shadow to be held at bay . . . at least, for the time being.


	67. "a veil before stars" I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melian/Thingol, Ensemble Doriathrim, and a guest appearance by Sauron || Prompt: _Hands, Touch, Arms, Reach, Limb, Joint, Stretch, Teeth, Eyes_
> 
> This was initially supposed to be a set of drabbles exploring the early days of Melian and Thingol, but the muse disagreed with the word constraint something fierce, and I was left with _this_ as a result. So, I split the collection into two updates to prevent an overflow of words. That said, this also includes various pieces of head-canon that have been only mentioned in this collection to date, so I hope that you enjoy what has become a fun labor of love on my end . . .
> 
> Now, here we go with Part I . . . I hope you enjoy! :)

**Hands  
  
** Her first step on two feet was one that stumbled.  
  
Even so, her loss of balance did not bear her ill, for she was caught even as she recognized her body's loss of equilibrium. She steadied herself on his proffered arm, finding the center of her gravity and holding it; standing upright, rather than lingering, weightlessly, on the air as if the laws of the world had no strings attached to her. She squeezed her hand over the smooth muscles flexing beneath her touch, finding his strength and taking it as her own. _S_ _trength . . . weakness -_ both were foreign concepts to one who'd ever come and gone as easily as thought, as easily as the turn of the wind or the roll of the sea. The Ainur had little use for true forms of flesh, even when they gave illusion of physicality – as she'd initially done upon finding Elwë in her glade. They were not truly creatures of bone, they were not truly veiled in skin; rather, they were a mere trick of the eye to the Children of Arda; who could not _see_ as they saw, who could not _be_ as they were.  
  
Yet, true was the body she now bound her spirit within. As real as the silver-lit grass and the slumbering trees, her blood now pulsed through her heart and kidney and veins. She breathed, and her lungs were filled; she blinked, and her eyes focused, squinting to see the world through sight rather than the intangible perceptions of a spirit's gaze.  
  
It was initially odd to listen and interpret the information her senses fed her mind . . . strange, even. Yet it was also exhilarating . . . tantalizing and awful and _wondrous_ all at once. She breathed, and found her mouth full of a sweet taste; she could smell the fragrant balm of the flowering trees and the dew of the morn, tantalizing her nose; she could hear the songs of the nightingales, gathered in curiosity and asking through bird-song for the changes in their mistress below. She exhaled and felt the forest respond to her presence – that being in no way _less_ than she could as a spirit, but merely _different_. She now felt as if she saw the intangible aspects of the world through a wall of water, through a haze of thick mist - as if someone had placed a veil of clouds before the might of the stars. And yet, still the stars shone, and ever would.  
  
Yet, any disorientation of the senses would pass, she thought. And if it was discomfort she truly felt, then that too was worth bearing through for sake of the hand that was now holding her upright. For how could she regret the new confines of her body when _he_ was reaching out to touch her face, her hair, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones as his fingertips traced the new, delicate tips of her ears in wonder? There was such a light in his eyes, and she filled herself on his devotion in turn, the _rightness_ of her decision anchoring in her bones and refusing to let her go.  
  
“I feared that I had fallen into a dream,” her stolen king – freed now – whispered. Enraptured, she listened to his _voice_ instead of the sound she had long known of his spirit, speaking to her own within the depths of her enchantment. The timbre was deep and rich, and her new skin seemed to prickle in awareness for the sound – matching the new, breathless pleasure that came from his hands tracing the newly wrought flesh of her body.  
  
“Yet,” his voice took on an amazed, incredulous note as he spoke, “I now find that my dream has followed me into the dawn. At least, I believe it has; if it has not, I do not wish to ever wake again.”  
  
“You are awake,” she promised, pausing after her speaking to process the voice she had chosen. The sound was deep and pleasing, with a lilting edge that she remembered from teaching her nightingales to sing. “What you see is real before you,” she assured him, reaching out to touch him in turn, her fingertips marveling over the warmth of _his_ flesh, the feel of _his_ body. “There is no spell, no enchantment; only myself.”  
  
“You speak as if you are not enchantment enough,” his voice was warm, and she marveled over the color of his clear blue eyes as they darkened, sweeping over her with affection in their depths.  
  
“To the contrary,” she said on little more than a whisper, “it was you who first ensnared me. I knew that I was wrong to keep you, that I had to let you go, and yet . . . Perhaps I am selfish, for I cannot give you up, even still.”  
  
She could still feel an echo of her kinsmen's confusion in the back of her mind, remembering the bafflement of the Valar when she'd first conveyed her wish and informed them of her decision. Never had one of the Ainur forsaken their natural course and their Eru-given place amongst the ethereal, the divine – never, but for the turncloak servants of Melkor, whom she refused to consider herself alike to in any way. And yet, even before her meeting Elwë, her restless feet had taken her from the court of Varda to Yavanna to Lórien in far off Aman, before at last turning to Middle-earth in her search for something _more_ , some _wanting_ she could not properly explain if asked. She had found that now: a surety for her placement, a _knowing_ of her belonging. Her choice was a leap of faith, an unprecedented one, yet she could not doubt her fall when the end of that descent brought her to _him_. And he . . .  
  
Ignorant of her thoughts, he reached out and gave her a hand to take, even after she found her balance. She took her first step, and then a second – teaching herself to walk as the Children walked, feeling all the while as a bird with untried wings as it was coaxed from the nest. But, she learned, and learned quickly, while at her side he patiently waited.  
  
She wrapped her hand about his as they left the eaves of Nan Elmoth behind - fingers threaded through fingers, while flesh sang for the touch of flesh - and was then certain that her reward more than outweighed anything she had given up.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Touch**  
  
It took them two days to cross the rivers separating Nan Elmoth from the forests of Eglador; and then some days more to make it across the Esgladuin river and into the woods of Neldoreth.  
  
She took to calling him Thingol after first seeing him with her physical eyes – taken, as she was, by the steel-grey cloak of his hair, and enchanted by the way the starlight poured over him in waves of silver and white. Where before she had been mesmerized by the fathomless cast of his spirit, she now found herself engrossed by his tangible presence. The strength of his form carried the same draw that the trees first held over her, and the way his star-lit eyes could burn as he looked at her was enough to send a strange sort of shiver to her body, one that she did not yet have the words to properly explain. He took the original syllables of her name and called her _Melian_ in the tongue of his people – _dear gift_ – muttering that, perhaps, the One knew even earlier than they just how essential she would be to him, and he in turn to her.  
  
Melian clasped her hand all the more tightly about his in reply to his words, and when he leaned down to press his mouth to hers, she at first stood still, unsure of what to do in return. A sweet sort of warmth filled her for the affection – but as much as it was sweet, it was also a _pressing_ warmth, urging her on for something more, something seemingly right beyond her grasp. When she asked, there was a fond light in his eyes as he explained the idea of a kiss – and she, never one to let her curiosity go unsated for long, soon found that there was more than the sweetness of a _kiss_ to be found if a wife she truly wanted to be. She'd known greed and wanting from the first, but now she had lust and desire and _love_ explained to her – now understanding the desperate line of something _more_ that had carved her spells and set her enchantments in deep from the first.  
  
If she soon developed a greed for this too – for the way her name fell from his mouth as he traced the syllables over the new lines of her flesh with his hands – then that was something only the shadows of the forest knew, and would ever know.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Arms**  
  
Her expectations for their return were many things. Awe and confusion she both anticipated, and a part of her even expected to find suspicion and unease next to the amazement of such a reunion. Yet, it was that which she did not expect – that which she did not think to consider – that ended up striking her the most. For there were indeed tears accompanying their welcome, but they were happy tears, filled with joy and relief alongside the natural sorrow of _missing_ that came with a family being knit back together again.  
  
She now found a new sort of warmth in the embrace swallowing her - a _familial_ warmth – with kind arms tightening around her shoulders as a kiss was pressed to her cheek, both reverent and wondrous all at once. Not, she reflected, wondrous for _her_ , but rather the peace and joy she had brought to his brother.  
  
“We feared that the Hunter took you,” Elmo drew back to say, his eyes flickering from her to Thingol as if he could not decide where to rest his gaze. “Yet I now see that you simply could not return to us. How could you, with a woman such as this drawing you away?"  
  
Elmo reached over to clasp his brother's shoulder, resting his hand there as Thingol did in turn to him. “But I knew . . . I _knew_ that you would someday return to us. I could not let you go – _we_ could not let you go – and our people have now developed quite the love for the stars and woods of this world. We could not leave Ennor behind – leave _you_ behind – and now, here we are quite content to remain.”  
  
Elmo continued to speak of their kin, and a shadow fell over Thingol's eyes for his learning of Olwë's taking Ulmo's hand into the West, leaving along with their people who no longer wished to tarry upon the shores of Middle-earth. She felt a pang from his spirit, though his words were true when he wished his sundered brother every happiness and joy in the blessed lands of Valinor beyond. It was a wound Elmo shared, though he declared the blow to be lessened with Thingol's return - for two together was not _three_ , but it was still one more than he had long since been alone.  
  
All the while, Melian listened and watched the brothers as they interacted. She had been surprised to discover just how _tall_ her husband was amongst the Eldar – he towered over the people who looked to him to lead, as did she as a result, for she had constructed a form to perfectly compliment his own. Elmo was close to matching Thingol in height, and the pale silver of his hair and the clear shade of starlight in his eyes was a mirror-image of Thingol's own. The high, haughty cast of his features more tellingly aligned them as kindred if coloring alone could be doubted – they being cut from the same cloth through design of the One, and great was the love between them as a result.  
  
“I did not think that Oropher would grow to be near as tall as I,” Thingol remarked as they walked through the home Elmo had built whilst waiting for his return, Elmo's family following behind them all the while. “But now your son is grown, and a husband himself. I knew about the _possibility_ of Galadhon's existence before I strayed, but he too is a man grown . . .”  
  
“Grown and with two sons of his own,” Elmo boasted proudly, his pride for the reach of his family not quite unlike her memory of Manwë looking on his Eagles for the first. “You will find much of Olwë in Galathil's likeness, even - too much, it sometimes seems. He has a fondness for the Sea that rivals our brother's, and he is even now gone with Círdan's folk. But Galathil should be home any day now to welcome arrival of his brother.”  
  
Galadhon and his wife had been blessed by a _very_ young one during the last days of spring, and Melian had been surprised when Galadhon answered her curiosity by asking if she wanted to hold the swaddled babe. She'd never seen a child before arriving in Eglador, let alone _held_ one, but she had no time to push down her trepidation when the babe was passed to her before she could even think to politely decline. Instinct filled her - aided by Galadhon showing her where to support the infant's head and how to cradle his body - and she listened to his instructions with the same determination and care she would have shown at the feet of the Valar, determined not to fail.  
  
“His mother named him Celeborn,” Galadhon introduced them, a father's fondness bright in his eyes, “and I could do naught but agree upon holding him for the first.”  
  
“ _Celeborn_ ,” she leaned down to whisper into the tiny shell of his ear, her nose touching the silver fuzz of his hair as she did so. She was rewarded by the wide eyed look of the child as he stared up at her with large blue eyes, his hand batting the empty air as if searching. She reached out to touch the soft skin of his cheek, marveling over the texture as the infant grasped onto her finger with a strength surprising for one so young. He made a delighted, cooing noise at his find, and she stared down at him, her heart instantly taken.  
  
“Have you ever seen a child before, my lady?” Elmo asked, the fondness in his eyes not unlike Thingol's whenever she was confronted by some new aspect of the world.  
  
“No,” she answered. “I was never one myself, either,” she anticipated his next question – just as Thingol had asked. “My kind were created so that we to could aid our masters in the ultimate creation. Yet growth . . . familial bonds . . . I have those amongst the Valar whom I may call my parents, and those amongst the Maiar I hold as my brothers and sisters, but this . . . this is quite different . . . unique, even. A blessing.”  
  
There was a moment of silence following her words, and she did not speak for feeling the bright soul of the child within the tiny body she held – finding the flame of their Father at the core of him, just as He was the founding light deep within her. In that way, she reflected, they were all kindred, with no true differentiation between their peoples to be found.  
  
“He is a beautiful boy,” she praised as she passed the child back to Galadhon. “He will be a credit to your name in the centuries to come; strong, with deep roots, and crowned by mighty boughs that will ever serve as shade and shelter for others.”  
  
“You bless me by saying so, your grace,” Galadhon inclined his head in appreciation for her words.  
  
She inclined her head, and found her arms strangely empty without the baby to hold. When she turned, she saw that Thingol had watched her all the while, a familiar warmth in his gaze as she met his eyes once more.  
  
“Where is your wife?” Thingol turned to ask Elmo after the moment passed. “I have not seen Celebressil since our arrival, and I must confess that it is an empty house without her laughter.”  
  
Melian could feel the warmth of the gathering shift, giving way to a grey dimming of spirits. She tilted her head, feeling the _loss_ that was suddenly illuminated as Elmo's bright gaze lost much of its fire. She felt, more so than knew, that his joy for greeting them had been a rare moment, long in coming – and her suspicion was confirmed by the way both Galadhon and Oropher turned to their father, as if waiting for a fall so they could go about picking up the pieces left lying.  
  
Elmo held onto his smile, but it was a tight look, drawn with grief. “She was taken,” he muttered in a distant voice. “The Hunter struck upon a group of us, and she was not to be found at the melee's end. Our efforts to find her have been fruitless, and there is no way to know whether or not she has fallen, or if she lives still in one of Gorthaur's black pits, for many are those toiling in northern-most Angband.”  
  
For a long moment, all was silence. Thingol looked on Elmo with a true sorrow in his gaze, while Elmo's sons held themselves carefully still in reply to their father's words. She read more _anger_ than grief in their stances, and felt herself swallow in reply to the tension on the air.  
  
_Yet Melkor was bound and chained to free Middle-earth of his taint_ , she thought, but did not say. _Deep in Námo's halls does he lament and wail, and in his absence the only shadows should be that which the star-light does not reach._ These tidings were troubling, and she did not yet understand -  
  
“ - in the haste of the Ainur to rid the Black Foe from our lands, they left behind many of his servants. They have only bred and multiplied in strength since his absence, and they grow all the more daring with each passing season,” Oropher's uncannily clear eyes were the ones to unveil her thoughts and answer what she did not say aloud. “Our people walk in Shadow as they have since before Araw the Huntsman came upon us, and yet, little trouble is that to those who are hidden beyond the fencing of the West.”  
  
“Oropher,” Elmo's voice was weary as he curbed his son. “We knew the good – and the ill – of this land when we decided to stay amongst these trees. It was our own inattention that day that let do -”  
  
“ - _inattention_?” Oropher interrupted, his voice taking on a stung note of incredulousness. “You infer a lapse on our part when it is precisely the sort of _inattention_ of the Valar that leaves Gorthaur free to continue his master's fine work. We have their protection and their love, but only so long as we heed their commands to cross the Sea and dwell underneath their feet in the West. Yet, if we _dare_ refuse to leave the land where the One set us down and bid us _awaken_ \- ”  
  
“ - _Oropher_ ,” Elmo's voice turned hard. “Your words are blasphemous, and I will hear no more of them.”  
  
“My words are _true_ ,” Oropher returned hotly, a mighty flame kindling in his gaze as he stood. His eyes slipped to hers, and she watched where he hesitated before pushing on to say: “You walked these woods, singing to the birds as Middle-earth awakened, but did you ever once notice the shadow polluting the ground beneath your feet as you spent centuries in your enchantment? If _you_ , whom I truly believe to love this land, are so blind to that which taints it, how can those who are an Ocean away, proud and uncaring upon their thrones, _ever_ \- ”  
  
“ - _Oropher!_ ” Elmo's voice turned thunderous as he too stood to confront his son. No matter the fire of Oropher's convictions, he stepped back as his father's spirit fluctuated in anger, the strength of an Unbegotten Elf-lord not a thing to be taken lightly in anger. “Your words are not right for speaking at this time. Today is a day of welcome and thanksgiving, and I will not have these doubts and misgivings drawn forth to plague it – just as the Shadow would delight to see, would it not? All too often our eyes see our own paths, and our own paths only, but I cannot believe that what happened to your mother is due to the One who created us all turning His eye away from His creation. If your words are true, then there is a hopelessness for dwelling in this land - rather than a _fight_ that we are more than ready and willing to wage. I _refuse_ to believe those thoughts . . . just as _she_ did when she dwelt amongst us.”  
  
“Yet,” Oropher held himself strong before his father's words, refusing to be cowed, “what would she now say if we could hear her speak from whatever dark corner of the earth she has been taken to? Would she truly think that the Valar have remembered her, or would she think herself _forsaken_ , as beneath their far-off attention as the day is from night?”  
  
Elmo looked at his son as if he'd suffered a blow, and only then did the steel lining Oropher's spine give way. He took a step forward, regret in his eyes – but not for his words, she saw, for they were those he truly believed – but for the pain he had inflicted by picking open a scab on his father's wounds.  
  
“Adar,” Oropher started to amend his speech, his voice heavy, and Melian found herself standing when Elmo's eyes closed off to anything his son would say.  
  
“Your son's words are unsettling, yet I cannot begrudge his speaking them,” Melian forced her voice to be still and poised as she came to stand between father and son. “I cannot say anything as to the thoughts of the Valar, except to state with some certainty that I have seen the mind of the One through His Song, and I know without a doubt that He cherishes that which we created. I cannot speak for Him, but I can speak for His love, and promise with all certainty that someday . . .” she swallowed, having to find her words once more. “Not forever shill this land remain in the dark,” she finished simply. “He will not allow it to remain so.”  
  
Much as Elmo's spirit had filled the room in anger, she reached out and touched the hearts surrounding her with peace and contentment. She worked to sooth tempers and bolster spirits, feeling both the deep gouges upon Elmo's soul and the angry lines holding Oropher's spirit tight. Both were a wound of a different sort, and she would see them put to rights and healed if she could.  
  
. . . but such a healing could not be accomplished all at once, and she took it as a boon when Oropher turned to her and nodded, grateful for her intervention. “If your words are truly His words, then this world stands poised for the better. Only, please forgive those of us, your grace, who have been too burdened with evidence to the contrary to accept them right away.”  
  
Elmo did not speak as to her words, but instead went on to ask in curiosity about the things which had only been fragmented tales from Oromë's mouth up until then. She was grateful to answer him, telling what she knew about the Song itself, and then more personal tales about her kindred amongst the Ainur - all the while pushing her own wonderings . . . her own questions of deep unease . . . aside for another time.  
  
All the while, Thingol watched her, his pride a constant presence at her side, holding her upright where even she knew doubt and tried her best not to falter.  
  
_My queen_ , he spoke simply into her thoughts, his pride and love filling her. In reply she once again took his arm – even if this time in the figurative way – and held herself upright on the strength of his belief.  
  
  
  
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**Reach**  
  
Though she'd given her voice to aid with the creation of the world, she did not think that she understood it – not truly – until bringing herself to know it as she did now.  
  
After his return, Thingol took it upon himself to visit every band of his people that had settled in Beleriand - as the land was just now being called. Denethor and his people came from the river-lands in the south to welcome the return of the king, and many of the stray elves who'd abandoned the Great Journey to live in scattered pockets of the forests poured into Neldoreth to see the return of the one who'd so long been lost. They completed their tour of Eglador before pushing further north and west to meet with the Sindar who still swore fealty to Thingol's rule. Their journey at last took them to the Sea, where a great many of his folk had settled – not out of love for the forests, but in awe for the ocean and its ways. Ulmo had a strong follower and devoted servant in Círdan the Shipwright, who was kindred to her husband from afar, and as pleased to see him now as Elmo had been as the first.  
  
All the while she quietly watched and learned about the people who were now her own - a people who now looked to her for wisdom and leadership as much as they did her husband.  
  
“Do you ever regret not crossing the Sea?” she asked once, watching the starlight wan across the waves in the onset of night. “The Trees are a wondrous sight, as you know, and Aman would have granted your people the chance to learn at the feet of the Valar themselves – free of the Shadow tainting this land.”  
  
“I have always found it odd that your kin would create a whole world, only to find beauty in but a fraction of it,” Thingol returned, running a gentle hand through her hair as he said so. She leaned into the caress with but a thought, eons of time uncounted without such casual affections having made her quite greedy for even the slightest of touches. “There is a beauty to be found in Ennor, both in the stars and the sleeping forests. I would not so readily forsake these lands - even were it not for the wishes of my people. I do not feel the urge to wander from here; I feel rooted, as if I am a part of the forest itself. I do not feel the need to fly like a seed to foreign soil when all I want or know is here, content and poised to thrive.”  
  
Melian nodded in reply to his words, hearing enough of an echo from Oropher's thoughts to turn them over again in her mind. She pressed her lips together, making her mouth a thin line as she closed her eyes, listening to the hymn of the sea and the whisper of the stars. An echo of the original Song remained in each, the notes of which she even now held onto in the marrow of her bones.  
  
“And I, more so than most, have a memory of the Trees to revisit whenever I so desire,” Thingol remarked. “If ever I find myself forgetting, I need only look at your eyes. Valinor was meant to be a gift, but I have found my blessing and more in you.”  
  
He spoke simply, the truth lining his words in place of any flowery attempt to seduce or woo. In answer, she felt herself anchor on his words as much as she did on the continued proof she had of her Father's love in the ocean and stars and deeply rooted trees. She settled back against him for the night, feeling true contentment fill her as she hummed, giving voice to the Song so that he too could hear that which was always a lingering melody within her.  
  
In that moment, the Trees and the Light were but a very far off memory, but in that seemingly little there was worlds enough.  
  
  
  
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**Limb**  
  
Time passed. The forests continued to sleep in Yavanna's thrall, while the stars wheeled in the sky through day and night as they set themselves to the pattern of Varda's dance.  
  
Their people were content, even thriving, in the not-light that existed so far from the Trees. All around her, children grew and families united in marriage over and over again as the numbers of the Firstborn branched out all the more so with each passing season. In her own family she counted herself blessed to welcome Oropher's son into the world, not even a year after their return. Barely ten years later, Elmo's daughter Gilornel – a kind, soft-spoken women who'd wed one of Círdan's folk by the sea – returned to Eglador to introduce her son to her father, a smiling little boy named Amdír, tellingly crowned with the pale hair of Elmo's line and blinking his blue eyes in welcome to the world. Their halls seemed to ever be full with the sound of children laughing, and everywhere she looked there were mothers holding and scolding and watching their little ones grow. In the millennia to come, those early days of her people would remain a cherished time in her memories – for, as the centuries passed and the numbers of the Eldar stabilized, children turned to a rare blessing within the halls of Doriath and every other Elven-realm. But, in those days, the pitter-pattering of little feet was an often heard melody - one whose rhythm she could feel as a refrain of the original Song itself.  
  
Until, one day, she at last understood that her fascination with the children of others stemmed from a missing . . . a _gap_ in her own being, the knowledge filling her spirit with an unexpected jolt of wanting as she understood her own mind. It was a longing – a desire – she had for some time now, she at last understood, having just only put a name to her wish.  
  
Yet, she was slow to find herself with child as the years passed. Children amongst the Firstborn were conscious decisions of their parents, who each gave of their fëar to create the soul of a child. Even when purposefully attempting such a union, their efforts were slow to produce any yield, and she often found herself holding a hand over her barren womb in frustration, dreading the idea that her stealing her husband away may have trapped him to a childless eternity – denying him one of the simplest fulfillment of nature there was to be had.  
  
It was a thought that threatened to bring her low at times, even when he endeavored to buoy her against it. “I do not need children, I need only you,” Thingol was ever quick to assure her. Yet, while the words could act as a bandage, they could never fully stem the source of her wound . . . until, one day, she decided to take action herself, and beseech a higher power for aid in her endeavors.  
  
It had been some time since she'd last spoken to her kindred in Aman - not since she'd heard their voices in her mind, moving her to end her spell with Elwë. It had taken her only a moment to decide that where he went, she would go also – no matter the surprise and unease that greeted her decision from the minds of her masters. While she did not have the Valar's disapproval, neither did she have their blessing, and she'd been slow to seek them out to answer her questions as a result.  
  
Yet, she now stood in a peaceful dell, just beyond their dwelling. The starlight shone down through the trees in a spill of silver twilight, rippling across the surface of the silver basin she had filled with water. Scarcely breathing, she held a hand over the water to summon the presence she needed to reach, looking to the Mirror and asking it to show her . . .  
  
“It has been long since last we spoke, my daughter,” a low, sonorous voice filled the emptiness of the clearing around her.  
  
Melian inclined her head before the Mirror, seeing where a hazy outline of a woman robed in silver and grey looked up from the water within. Estë was always slow to take on a physical form; instead, Melian saw her face from the corner of her eye, only to blink and lose her in her sight. Rather did she know the Vala by the dance of the willow trees in Lórien, by the feather-light touch of the wind upon her face as peace draped over her spirit in reply to Estë's presence - the Healer ever providing rest and recovery to those who called upon her name.  
  
Though she was not in Lórien now, she still knew Estë by the same – by the dance of the trees and the ripples upon the water. She searched, and was rewarded by a flickering of kind eyes, gazing on her through the powers of the Mirror. Melian breathed in deep, and felt peace and renewal fill her, even without her former Mistress knowing the reason for her being called.  
  
Or, rather . . . Estë knew the exact reason for her summons, the Sea not distance enough to close her eyes to one who had once been a cherished spirit amongst her fold of Maiar.  
  
“I was unsure if you would call me,” Estë spoke from the Mirror, her voice something that Melian felt against her spirit rather than heard with her physical ears.  
  
“I have never once forgotten my beginning, nor those who shared the beginning of all with me,” Melian replied to the Lady of Lórien.  
  
“Then you will remember that the Ainur were made for the sole purpose of preservation and creation. And yet, our _creation_ we sought only through the will of our Father, and we still our hands of our work when He decrees that we be at rest,” Estë said after a long moment, pregnant with pause. “We were not made to birth, so much as to cultivate, to _keep_.”  
  
Briefly, Oropher's words flashed through her mind, and she swallowed back the pang they brought with them – a defiant pang, that wished to press and poke and _prod_. Even so, she bowed her head to the woman she had served for countless eons of time - since before the birth of the physical universe, even – unwilling as she was to let her mouth fill with such words in the Healer's presence.  
  
Yet, her mind was open before the Vala, and there was nothing she thought that the other could not see.  
  
“For now, you have known only the sweet, my daughter,” Estë said softly. “Yet, what shall befall you when you are forced to know of the bitter? Ennor is not a kind land, and it was to be left to the Shadow we could not wholly erase while Arda is still marred. Do you truly wish to bind yourself to this taint in such an irrevocable way? Would you raise a child in a land that knows of such toil?”  
  
“Rather would I say that I'd appreciate the sweet all the more so for partaking of the bitter – as all in this land learn to do.” She bowed her head in respect, even when she could not wholly swallow her words away. “I would see the beauty in _all_ that was born through our Song, not only the fraction that lies protected in fenced off Valinor.”  
  
She expected Estë's eyes to flash, to take offense as one of the Eldar would have perhaps known offense for a flaw in their thinking being suggested - no matter how gently. Instead, Estë's presence merely flickered. Melian briefly had the impression of her tilting her head, sorrow in the fathomless cast of her eyes.  
  
“You speak as the Firstborn speak,” Estë remarked without infliction in her voice.  
  
“I speak as _I_ think,” Melian returned in kind. “You know me well enough to know that I would not allow my thoughts to be dictated by any other.”  
  
“Well do I know that,” Estë replied. “Well as I too know that you are not one to allow your mind be swayed by any other – as you are even now deaf to any words I may think to speak. This is a path you are determined to set your feet on.” There was not a question in the Healer's voice.  
  
“I am Maiar; I was made to _create_ ,” Melian tilted her head up to meet the Vala's eyes – catching them within the flickering shape she presented to the physical world. “These were words you yourself uttered but moments ago. Then, is it not a cruelty that I cannot birth a child as even the simplest of creatures can? These people . . . they live and love and _thrive_ whilst dwelling alongside that which we call _marred_. In the end, it is the simplest bonds of kindred and ties of the heart that make that living – that _thriving_ \- possible. Please,” a note of pleading entered her voice, no matter that she had been determined not to do so. “For an eternity I am bound to my husband, just as he is to me. Do not punish him for my selfishness in being unable to let him go. Let me give him a child.”  
  
“You openly claim such covetousness on your part, but do not think that it was selfish of him to try to bind that which he had no claim over, that which was higher than him as the stars are to the earth?” Estë returned. “Some would say that you reap as you have sewn, and wonder for your now seeking blessings for the consequences of that which you have wrought.”  
  
It was not only Estë she spoke to then, Melian understood, knowing that her case was one being heard by all of the Valar. She stiffened, and fought the physical urge she had to clench her fists, to make a line of her mouth. She could imagine stern Tulkas speaking so, while Nienna whispered of the pains Arda suffered, and Ulmo coaxed in behalf of the land he loved above all of her kin . . . perhaps Yavanna would speak of the people who loved her trees more so than anything else, and Aulë would support his wife . . . She blinked, and had a flash of wise Manwë looking on with Varda ever thoughtful by his side . . .  
  
“I will not apologize for loving my husband,” she at last returned, forcing her voice not to come out as a hiss. Had she met with the Valar upon a physical plane, she would have felt the urge to bare her teeth as if she faced a predator of claw and fang. “I will not bow my head in _shame_ for looking on _all_ that we have created and finding something worthy amongst the mar, something beautiful amongst the Shadow. I will not have you cast me as a fallen, shameful thing for seeking out, and finding my rightful place in the world - for this _is_ where I belong . . . it is a belonging I felt only when Singing as our Father bid us to Sing. I cannot believe that my love, that _his_ love, is contrary enough to His will to be such a source of disdain for you. No, I _refuse_ to believe that I acted contrary to His will in any way.  
  
“Tell me, my lord Manwë,” she tilted her head to the side, feeling the _immense_ presence of the Lord of Heaven looking down on her, even when she could see him not, “as you have our Father's ear above all others . . . am I something grotesque in the eyes of the One? Am I a source of shame, am I a _mistake_ in his creation to be ignored as Melkor's surviving taint in the Outer Lands is to be ignored?”  
  
“You are nothing of the sort to be grouped in with the likes of _h_ _im_ ,” Estë returned, and Melian felt where her words sank in – where they were turned over and examined and weighed. “Yet, you are a child of my spirit as much as the child you wish to bear will be a daughter to you. How can I let you make a decision that will someday bring you grief, no matter the joys you now think it worth?”  
  
“This is how each of the Eruhíni live their lives,” Melian tilted her head up as she said so. “And I would not forsake the sweet for fear of the bitter, as you would call it.”  
  
“Then, you would truly force this from my hand?” Estë at last gave on a sigh that was equal parts weariness and defeat. “And yet . . . from your daughter shall come answers uncountable to the Shadow in the generations ahead – just as the worst of the Children in both hate and vile disregard for our Father will come from your line in the ages of the world to come. This, Manwë has revealed as the will of the One, and I have not the power within me to deny your request on His behalf.  
  
“Only . . . remember that I hold _you_ dear, Melyanna, and care first and foremost about the Maiar of Lórien. It is _your_ happiness I care for, and someday . . .”  
  
Melian felt where Estë's presence rose from the Mirror. The Healer pressed a mother's kiss to her brow, filling her with a wave of warmth – the incalculable light of her spirit seeking out and finding that which had been beyond her reach, and opening that which had previously been closed.  
  
Though her task was done, her gift given, Estë lingered - the light of her spirit simply a warmth upon her own, both fond and sorrowful all at once. “When Ennor leaves you bereft of all you hold dear, know that your place is always welcome here, my child. Remember that there are those waiting to welcome you and hold you close once more.”  
  
Estë kissed her one last time, and Melian felt her presence wink away, leaving her alone amongst the trees. She felt strangely light in her body after bearing the heavy weight of the Powers each looking down on her in consideration. And yet, she did not feel _alone_ in the parting. She did not feel _empty_.  
  
Rather . . .  
  
That night, she kissed her husband with a passion akin to what she had felt their first night together in the forest. There was meaning and _want_ in her hands; hunger and _purpose_ in the claim of her mouth, so much so that Thingol soon drew back with a question in his eyes, feeling the low burn of power and _life_ all but rising to flare from her skin.  
  
“Trust me,” she muttered against his mouth, their breaths mingling as she took only that moment to assure him. No more needed to be said, and this time he kissed her with a want that both answered to and matched her own. She hummed in approval before pushing him down onto the bed they shared, ready to let the night lead them on from there.  
  
  
  
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**Joint**  
  
Overhead, the stars coloured the sky with a haze of silver morning, shining down on where she was still entwined with her husband. Contentment made her limbs heavy, and satisfaction was a drowsy warmth upon her spirit as she curled in closer to him, not yet willing to move with the day. Sharing a matching languor, he ran a slow hand up and down the bare skin of her back in a lazy caress, remapping the familiar lines of her body with a simple, easy affection that had her pulse slowing to match his own in reply. Yet, even within the comfortable glow of morning, she could feel a question in his touch . . . wondering over the altered shape of their bond, feeling not only that which she had used Estë's gift to create, but also -  
  
“Melian, what have you done?” Thingol muttered a moment later. His voice was deep and drowsy at the first, only to sharpen as he felt the minute differences in her spirit.  
  
She was slow to reply, still lost in the boneless contentment that she had awakened with. “My physical form is now anchored to your spirit,” she answered, her voice slow and unconcerned as she spoke. “I can no longer morph my shape at will, and should any harm ever befall you, my body too would be forfeit, just as your own hröa is bound to your fëa. In the event of your death, I would return to the West as an unhoused spirit, there to rest and recover until I found power enough to take my original form once more.”  
  
She felt where he was fully awake now, his fear and unease for her choice filling her mind with all of its sharp edges. “Melian - ”  
  
“ - is that not a risk that all of the Eruhíni live under?” she intercepted any argument he could think to make before he gave it voice. She propped herself up on one elbow, shifting her weight to better hold his gaze as she said: “It is a risk that _you_ live under . . . a risk that our _daughter_ shall live under . . . I shall be no different, my love.”  
  
Her words were all that was needed for the sharp prickling within their bond to turn to something wondrous – something hopeful, but afraid to hope lest she speak the words that would free him from a most tantalizing dream.  
  
“A daughter?” Thingol asked, his whisper a tumultuous thing on the still morning air.  
  
Melian was fully awake now, and her eyes burned when she blinked, even though there was nothing but joy in her spirit when she inclined her head and answered: “A daughter,” in a voice that quivered with the strength of her emotions.  
  
His eyes were still wide, the wonder slow to leave his features as he trailed a hesitant hand to her stomach. Although he would not be able to feel the physical proof of their child for some time, she felt where he searched to find the smallest spark of their daughter's fëa, already living and burning with awareness against their spirits. His wonder was contagious, and Melian placed her hand atop his own, her answering smile all he needed to know that this was not still some waking dream - stumbled upon in the night, only to be a source of cold missing come the dawn.  
  
The morning then passed even slower, they each lingering to speak of the future with bright, eager voices, ready as they were for the days ahead.  
  
  
  
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**Stretch**  
  
Melian gave birth to her daughter the following spring, underneath the beech trees of Neldoreth.  
  
The birth was long and difficult - a fitting ordeal to match what had been a long and difficult pregnancy, with her skin stretching and her bones reshaping in an alien way as she forced her body, her _spirit_ , to do that which her physical-self had decided as unnatural, as _foreign_. Where she had merely felt rooted in her body before, there were days during her pregnancy that she felt trapped - smothered and weighed down with a great and heavy burden. While the knowledge of what she stood to gain more than made up for the discomfort of what she endured, a discomfort still it was, and in many ways she welcomed her first pangs of distress as the light awaiting at the end of a rather long and arduous path.  
  
It took many hours, and more pain and struggling than she'd first thought to expect, but triumph and a boneless sort of satisfied exhaustion fill her when her daughter was at last birthed crying into the world. No matter how abused her own shape was, no matter how she had battled and persevered, she had overcome, she had endured – so much so that every pain was forgotten as that small pink body was cradled close to her own, and her daughter's bright grey eyes met hers for the first.  
  
“Lúthien,” Thingol whispered when at last the sheets were changed and their daughter was properly cleaned and swaddled. He'd stayed with her throughout the whole of her labor – doing his best to take what he could of her pain onto himself and pour strength and determination into her in return – and he now sat by her side, holding their daughter so they could both look upon the babe. She turned in her father's hold with an instinctive trust, already knowing his voice and recognizing the touch of his spirit from the many nights he had spent speaking to the growing shape of her stomach.  
  
“ _Lúthien_ ,” he repeated again, the name gaining strength and song as his suggestion turned from idea to decision, “for she has enchanted me with but a glance - as easily and as surely as her mother once did.”  
  
“ _Lúthien_ ,” Melian tried the name and approved of its shape with naught but a moment of consideration. “It suits her, husband.”  
  
“It may be the bias of a father,” Thingol continued on a soft voice, “but she is the fairest creature the One has ever seen fit to bless this world with. I cannot imagine the Starkindler herself bearing even half of her beauty.”  
  
“I have seen the heavens leap into being and the seas rush to fill their confines,” she whispered in turn, feeling her heart seize with a great, boundless love, “yet even they were a sight which pales to that before me.”  
  
Mindful of where her every limb still ached with a dull pain, he moved to join her in their bed, stretching out beside her and drawing her into his arms so that she could rest cheek by cheek with her babe against her husband's chest. Thus so content, she closed her eyes and let a drowsy rest take her, complete and content as the soft warmth of her family rose to settle against her spirit.  
  
  
  
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**Teeth**  
  
Motherhood was another hurdle to be leapt, another role to learn as surely as she learned that of wife and queen and one physical rather than spiritual.  
  
Some days were easy, and she adapted as easily as she did to the altering refrains of the Song as it was launched into being. Yet, some days were perplexing, and a moment or two were even trying – especially when it was her own ignorance that proved to be ill for her daughter . . . who was even now crying, fitfully and seemingly without end. Changing her, feeding her, rocking her in her arms - nothing served to sooth her daughter's discomfort. She did not understand what was wrong with the babe, and every effort she took to sooth her only seemed to frustrate her more.  
  
Melian was out of options and as frustrated as Lúthien was - the child even now crying pitifully in her arms.  
  
“Ah, she is teething,” Elmo was the one to discern what was wrong with the princess. At first, she had not understood why he placed a finger in her daughter's mouth, only to know a stunned sort of bewilderment when his pressing against her gums turned Lúthien's cries to little more than pitiful hiccups of sound.  
  
“Teething?” she asked, trying to conceal her surprise at such a revelation.  
  
“She was not born with teeth, your grace,” Elmo answered, his soft way of speaking ever pleasantly enlightening her, rather than making her feel as if she'd missed something that should have been obvious. “Or, she was, but not where you could see them. They come in only with time, and the process is uncomfortable for the child.”  
  
Melian blinked, wondering why she had not thought to consider such a thing before.  
  
Elmo noticed her expression, and smiled a soft smile, full of memory. “It took Celebressil and I nearly two days to first understand what was ailing Oropher. We then knew the signs and were able to more quickly anticipate the needs of our children. You grow as a parent, and each lesson learned better equips you to tackle the next hurdle.”  
  
She watched where his eyes traced over Lúthien, his gaze seemingly far beyond the child now happily gumming against the finger he so graciously provided. Melian wondered if he then imagined a different child in Lúthien's place . . . a different woman standing at his side, and felt sorrow fill her for the thought.  
  
“A cold rag will do well for her to chew on,” Elmo muttered. “Oropher and Gilornel preferred ice over all else, while Galadhon had a liking for cold carrots – or any such root we could find. It is only a matter of discovering what she prefers.” He then blinked, coming back to himself, and when he looked over at her, his expression was fond.  
  
And yet, though his was a smile full of acceptance – of peace – she found that it was a peace she could not share. She held her daughter, and for the first felt as if hers was a stolen blessing . . . a selfish peace taken when those around her knew not of such contentment.  
  
“If I . . . if I could move the Ainur to . . .” she swallowed, unsure how to continue with her words. For all of her vast power . . . for all of her divinity and endless days, she then felt constrained in her bones. She could feel the stars wheel overhead, she could feel the trees as they swayed in their slumber . . . yet, for all of the immense power cloaking her as one of the favored children of Eru, she could not aid those she had come to love even more dearly than she had her Maiar kin.  
  
“I know you would,” Elmo whispered softly in reply. Lúthien, thus lulled from her discomfort, then blinked and closed her eyes in exhaustion. He removed his finger from her mouth once she was soothed, and leaned over to kiss Lúthien's brow in a loving gesture. “I know, my lady, and I . . . I thank-you.”  
  
His gratitude was sincere, and he said nothing more on the subject - not then, or ever. Yet Melian remembered, and could not ever bring herself to forget.  
  
  
  
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**Eyes**  
  
It was well into the unwaking hours when she felt a glimmer of sensation brush against the wards she'd established around Neldoreth. She was instantly awake, feeling a sense of _wrongness_ pulse in the marrow of her bones. But when she looked, all was silence around her. She glanced, seeing where her husband had fallen asleep with Lúthien in the rocker by her cradle - he having been the last to rise and change her in the night. After a moment's consideration she left them both sleeping, reaching out with her senses to find where there was not a threat awaiting her, but rather a searching feeling - a curious probe, like a wolf scenting the air for trace of a deer.  
  
Hating the time it took her to walk from place to place when simply appearing where she wished would of been preferred, she made her way through the sleeping halls and out into the dark night, her stride barely ruffling the silver grass as she looked to find . . .  
  
In the end, she needed not of secrecy to come upon her foe - for he stood out in the open, his hand not braced in any form of attack, but rather, in curiosity as he brushed his senses against her magicks, testing her spells for both weakness and strength. She felt her mouth turn down in an expression of distaste - one that was more Elven than Maiar - but the emotion behind the gesture was true enough to both races as she stopped some paces away, refusing to hide in the shadows before the likes of _him_.  
  
Though she'd known her fellow Maia but little in the time before his betrayal, Mairon the Admirable was one she remembered as a spirit of white-gold flame, burning brightly and assuredly at his master's side. But though he was now the favourite of a Vala, Aulë's favourite he was not, and it was a blow of its own to see how little his form had changed to reflect that defection. His fall of copper hair, the beautifully sharp cast of his features, the flames he bore in place of eyes – all were familiar to her. Only a certain greyness tinting his bronzed skin, the dark bruises colouring the flesh around his eyes, and the cruel twist of his black and scarlet armor declared who it was he now served, and served well. That assured expression – ever bordering on haughtiness – now held a twist of cruelty as he wore his spirit bright in the night, rather than subdued and subjected by Aulë's side.  
  
“Ah, I recognized your . . . unique mark upon the spells,” Mairon remarked, tapping an armored finger against the invisible wards. A wash of deep violet light answered as he wounded the spell, scarlet sparks flashing from his touch.  
  
“Mairon,” she greeted stiffly, drawing herself up to the full height of her physical body. Her voice and her demeanor was that of a queen speaking to an errant subject, and the clearing itself answered her unease - the ground turning tense and the air stilling as if holding a breath.  
  
“Melyanna,” he returned in kind, little impressed by the rancor in her voice. He inclined his head mockingly, though he would not bow to her, even in jest. “Or is it Melian now, and _Queen Melian_ , at that?” he raised a sharply arched brow in derision. “There are some who would say that you married beneath you, though I suppose I can understand the appeal – after all, why wilt away as one of the _many_ amongst the simple minds filling Lórien when you could instead rule those lesser as an unchallenged mistress?” He shrugged. “If that sort of thing appeals to you, that is. The plan would lose its luster for me with subjection to an elvish mate. Really, sister, how _deviant_ your tastes are. Out of all our siblings, I would not have expected such of _you_.”  
  
“Seeing the company you now prefer, and the alliances you have made in the name of power, I shall take your opinions as affirmation of my course being the right one,” she returned testily, slipping into the language of the Ainur with little thought. “Yet, I will not stand here and listen to your words. What are you here for, Mairon?” She tensed with her question - expecting violence, expecting for him to lunge, serpent-fast, though to what end she did not know.  
  
Yet, his posture remained poised and unassuming in answer, even though his stillness was the deceptive peace of a roaming jungle-cat. Danger cloaked him, toxic and beguiling, but it was a leashed power, a restrained might. His smile was an unfortunately beautiful expression as it softened his features, and she then knew that he'd guessed the shape of her thoughts. She set her mouth at the knowledge, little pleased.  
  
“I come here with a business proposition,” he at last deigned to answer her. “I come, not for myself, but for Melkor my master, Ruler of Arda and the rightful Lord of this world. He wishes to treat with you, to see if your services are those he could perhaps make use of in the days to come.”  
  
“He wishes for me to serve him as _you_ serve him?” she returned, shaping her voice as if he were an erring child before her, with his mind yet too simple to understand the full weight of his error. “I have seen how Melkor treats those who ally with him, and I wish not for such a yoke upon my shoulders. I even wonder for you, _brother_ , and your lowering yourself to such a position. _The Hunter_ , my people call you – such a task is one that baffles me, as beneath you as I'd first imagine it to be.”  
  
“The Hunter? Is that the title they give to the _many_ assigned that task?” Mairon raised an amused brow, her words striking him as a gentle breeze against a deeply rooted tree. “You are right, such snatch and grab raids _are_ beneath me. Rather am I there at the moment of . . . _improvement_ for the Firstborn, shall we say. My Master seeks to better the creation of his siblings without expending too much of his power in creating anew – more so than he already has, that is. I would have guessed that your own streak of . . . _rebelliousness_ would see a sort of beauty in that which he returns to your . . . subjects. They are quite perfected, are they not?”  
  
Melian had yet to meet an Orc, protected as the Sindar were in the forests, but she'd heard tales from others – tales of those they faced in attack, and whispered stories of those whose loved ones were returned as twisted, foreign creatures . . . so much so that they were released to Námo in pity, as one would take mercy on a rabid dog. She felt a wave of anger pour through her veins, molten and consuming with its potency. Had she a spirit's body, she knew that the light of her incredulity would have been blinding in reply.  
  
“I remember the things you liked to forge in Almaren, Mairon,” she found her voice trembling with the great shape of her anger. “Do not tell me that you agree with his methods any more so than I.”  
  
“Perhaps they are not quite elegant enough for my tastes,” Mairon shrugged. “But they are an outlet for my Lord's frenzies, and the Orc-host is a useful tool, in its own way.”  
  
“You were ever the craftsman of craftsmen,” she lauded witheringly. “Aulë must be so proud of his favourite student trading in his wares for such wanton cruelty.”  
  
“Is it cruelty when the craft I inflict is not anything I have not already known from _experience?_ I shape the living the same as I would a fold of metal – such as a piece of art is made beautiful, or useful, by the blows of a hammer and the heat of a furnace _,_ ” This Mairon returned drolly, his flames for eyes sparking. “You may call it by any name that suits you, however.”  
  
“And this is a service you wish for me to enter into?” she asked after a moment. “A service of blood and black decay? A service to serve a _shadow_ of what Melkor's might once was? For does he, or does he not, still serve his sentence in Námo's dark halls beyond the Sea?”  
  
“Oh my dear Melyanna, have you not heard?” Mairon asked, blinking in deceptive pity for her lack of enlightenment. “You have dwelt amongst your tree-fairies for too long if you are so ignorant to the goings on in the Blessed Realm. Out of the graciousness and mercy of our lord Manwë's heart,” for this his face took on a flicker of scorn, “Melkor has been pardoned of his great many _sins_ , and even now serves his parole in the golden lands of Valinor.”  
  
“ _No_ ,” her first instinct was to deny him, to believe him not. “Your forked tongue speaks only lies.”  
  
“Believe what you will,” Mairon shrugged, and it was his lack of care as to whether or not she swallowed his falsehood that had her, for a dangerous moment, wondering if his words were true. A chill swept though her bones in reply, though the night was warm with summer. “What stands as the _truth_ is the that my Master _is_ poised to return. When he does, he's always held an . . . appreciation for those who bring themselves to think beyond what the Valar tell them to think; who act beyond what they are told they can and cannot do.”  
  
“Your path and mine are different in every possible way, Mairon. Do not fool yourself by looking on them and seeing them as equal,” she retorted.  
  
“Are they truly so different?” Mairon inquired, refusing to rise to the rancor in her voice. “Did we not look after the Music to find a world that was lacking, and the Powers that birthed that world wanting? Did we not _both_ long for more . . . and did we not each find an object worthy of our devotion, in our own ways?”  
  
His eyes took on a glazed quality, the flames within his gaze banking and glowing . . . until, in a moment of unsettling realization she understood that he did not only serve his Master, but he _adored_ him. There was danger to be found in such a bond, she knew – for anything Melkor asked his Lieutenant would obey without question, even if he bid him flay his own flesh from his bones . . . this Mairon would do so willingly, and reverently.  
  
Yet, he blinked, and the flames of his gaze turned consuming once more. He turned to her, and regarded her with a hard, considering look.  
  
“You may even bring your . . . offspring with you,” Mairon's mouth thinned, as if his words were foul to the taste. “She is pretty enough to be amusing once she grows, and there _is_ a power within her for being only half Ainu. With the proper schooling -”  
  
“ - touch her,” Melian found her cracking mask of serenity breaking outright, a terrible rage binding her limbs and setting her eyes aglow in such a way that no form of mere flesh could hide the might of her divinity, “and there will not be enough left of you to banish to the Void. This I promise you, Mairon.”  
  
“And such a promise it is, Melyanna. _Prove it_ ,” Mairon's voice was a low, sinful purr in reply to her threat. She blinked, and where one moment he stood the length of the clearing away from her, he stood with only a breath of space between their bodies a heartbeat later. Gently, too gently, he traced his gauntleted hand over her cheek in a mockingly tender gesture.  
  
The power that had been rising up to the surface of her skin she then loosed in a flood of iridescent light, shining from the darkest of blues to the brightest of silvers in a pantomime of the star-dance above their heads. She put her all into the blow, and while Mairon backed a step away from her in answer to her might, he did not stumble.  
  
Again and again she struck, yet he merely brushed her assault of power away with a wave of his hand. He did not return her blows, which only drew her own power brighter and _brighter_ in reply until the clearing was alight around them.  
  
“Weak, Melyanna,” he tsked, shrugging off the lingering wisps of pure energy with a bored look of indifference. Even still, his eyes burned as one hungry in reply to her display of power. “Weak . . . but with _such_ potential.”  
  
“Be gone with you!” she finally exclaimed. “I will have your spirit poison these eaves no more, and neither will I listen to the venom of your words. Leave, _now_ , before I force you to.”  
  
Mairon chuckled in reply to her anger. “It saddens me that you were not more amenable to my offer,” he inclined his head, the copper wave of his hair falling to shield his eyes as if he were truly one contrite. “Yet I would have you think on this: Melkor returns, and when he does, will the Valar move to chain him once more? They have all they want from this land in the shape of the Firstborn who now reside as their footstool in the West. What will happen to you and yours upon his return? Will you _fight_ \- to the death and detriment of how many? Or . . . would you join us now, you and all of yours, and serve a lord who loves this land in _entirety_?”  
  
“Your lord is the _reason_ for the taint marring this world,” she hissed her final refusal, “And I would not infect myself and my people with that poison.”  
  
He looked at her, all teasing and measured scorn gone from his gaze as he truly evaluated her, the burning in his eyes and the beauty of his face a terrible thing to behold. At long last, he backed away from her, and tilted his head in farewell.  
  
“Then this is where we then part ways, Melyanna . . . And yet . . . I do not think we have spoken our last in regards to my master's offer. I see now that you are the sort who prefers to be courted, and so . . . look for my gift, for soon it shall come. Afterward, we shall speak again.”  
  
Melian waved her hand in reply to his words, and another wave of pure light flooded from her fingertips. And yet, by the time her blow struck where he once stood, he was already gone, with only a wisp of smoke remaining to mar the clearing.  
  
She lingered, her hands still aglow with power, staring where he had once stood for a long, long time.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Araw** : The Sindarin name for Oromë  
>  **Eruhíni** : Children of Eru, namely the Elves and Men  
>  **Melyanna** : Melian's original name  
>  **Elwë** : Thingol's original names  
>  **Mairon** : Sauron's original name  
>  **Gorthaur** : The Sindarin name for Sauron


	68. "a veil before stars" II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melian/Thingol, Ensemble Doriathrim, and a guest appearance by Gandalf (Olórin, here) || Prompt: _Blink, Flesh, Body, Lungs, Speech, Song, Fist, Bones_
> 
> Part two to the last chapter. 
> 
> And here be a **WARNING** for the aftermath of torture, and other such uncomfortable Angband and Sauron related things in a few of these segments. If such a thing is not your cup of tea, this is not the update for you.

**B** **link**  
  
The months went by, and she waited for Mairon's next move seemingly in vain.  
  
Even with the apparent calm left in his wake, she did not relax her vigil, and many were the nights when she sat by her daughter's bedside, looking out the window in search of a shadow in the night. On one such eve, when her husband lingered late with his council, she felt a glimmer of a presence against her wards, seeking for a way within.  
  
Yet, there was no malice in the touch, only a soft light of certainty, of _familiarity_. With a flicker of recognition, Melian opened the way for the silver spirit to slip between the trees, and a soft white light soon filled her daughter's nursery – glimmering in washes of white and silver-grey over the walls. She breathed in deep with the old, familiar aura of the Maia's might, before turning to see -  
  
“Olórin!” she exclaimed, fondness brightening her voice. “Of all those I would have thought to find . . .”  
  
As a Maia of Manwë - though Olórin was notorious for serving any and all amongst the Valar with the endless search of his mind and the restless stride of his feet - he tellingly chose a raiment of the cloudy heavens. Although his robes were simple and unassuming, the handsome, square cut of his features could not be mistaken as anything less than lordly. He always managed to appear more solid than the majority of the Ainur when bearing an illusion of flesh; with his white hair falling long and straight, rather than hovering in a windless mass, and the divine glow of his eyes made tangible for the easy humor and high spirits that ever defined him. Immediately her guard fell, and she smiled, stepping forward to greet him.  
  
“You were not the only one with a fondness of walking these shores,” Olórin reminded her, a twinkling in his eyes that had long since endeared him to her. His skin was warm underneath her mouth when she kissed his cheek, and she felt an easy joy fill her as she remembered the long cast of time they'd spent serving in Lórien together.  
  
“I've never forgotten,” Melian answered simply. “There were many a time when I thought feel you nearby, especially when my dreams turned unusually fair.”  
  
“You flatter me,” Olórin said, but the too-innocent cast of his expression only confirmed her suspicions.  
  
“I would merely say that you were ever an attentive listener, and Irmo had much to speak of,” Melian teased. “But, I know that you are not here to see me – or,” she amended, “not entirely.”  
  
“Are my motives so transparent?” Olórin asked. Even as he spoke, he was discreetly trying gaze over her shoulder, looking for the cradle waiting behind her. She waved a hand, and the lamps softly burned into being, casting a pale glow upon the night.  
  
“Only to a very old friend, perhaps,” she assured him. “But it is a mother's joy to share her own, and I am eager to do so. Come.”  
  
Melian turned, and walked those few steps over to her daughter’s crib. She looked down to see that Lúthien was already awake, looking up at her with wide, curious eyes – she no doubt feeling her fellow Maia's spirit, and turning towards it as most were wont to do. “Nana,” she happily greeted as she put her arms up, wanting to be held, and Melian obliged her.  
  
Olórin watched her all the while, and was unblinking when he met Lúthien's fascinated gaze. Smiling, she held her arms to the silvery spirit, commanding “up” in an imperious voice that gave no doubt to her being the daughter of a king.  
  
Yet, the Maia-lord gave into the girl's request with more ease than which Melian had first held a child. He reached over to effortlessly tuck her daughter in against his body, smiling even as Lúthien immediately settled her hands into the glowing strands of his hair, intrigued by the not-quite _real_ texture she found.  
  
“She is so small,” Olórin whispered, more to himself than to her. Deftly, he moved to unravel Lúthien's fingers from his hair – his glowing fingertips purposefully sparkling with white light so as to divert her attention, and Lúthien followed his trick with wide, awe-struck eyes.  
  
“They are even smaller when first born,” Melian delighted in someone sharing her initial wonder over the fact. “I could not believe how tiny her fingers were when first I held her, and now she grows so fast.”  
  
They moved to sit in the nursery's ring of cushioned chairs, and Lúthien climbed down from Olórin's lap when his show of light turned even elaborate for her amusement. Shapes and creatures came alive from his fingertips and danced around her daughter as she stood with wondrous eyes, reaching out and trying to touch that which was seemingly aglow around her. They spent some time like that, speaking of nothing but the child before them as Lúthien chased the light and enchanted them effortlessly in her turn.  
  
“I understand your choice, Melyanna,” Olórin said at long last. “You have gone about making quite the home for her, for yourself, as well. I am happy that you have found your path, and your place.”  
  
“I thank you, Olórin. Your words are cherished more than you know.” For a moment, Melian wished to ask how he was faring in finding his own way – for rare was it for a Maia to serve so many amongst the Valar, ever looking for a place and belonging - but his words brought another thought to mind . . . an unsettling question that only he could answer.  
  
“I had a disturbing visitor, not too long ago now,” she delicately began after some time had passed. After tiring of the show of light, Lúthien had climbed into Olórin's lap. Her eyes were now heavy with sleep as he rocked her back and forth, trailing a gentle hand through the inky fall of her hair. “He came from the north, for when Utumno was destroyed, _he_ was not, and even now he continues his master's work.”  
  
“Mairon,” Olórin sighed the name after a long moment, the syllables weary from his mouth.  
  
“Mairon,” she confirmed. “He came to recruit me into his master's service, but such a thing is impossible - for Melkor is safely where he can harm no other, locked far away from any and for all . . . is he not?”  
  
Yet . . . Olórin was silent, slow to give her the assurance she sought. There was a burden in his eyes, a weight hanging on the absence of his words until they were as shackles, and she _knew_ . . .  
  
“Olórin? Please, my friend, tell me these words are not true,” she entreated him. Yet, with a sinking feeling, she thought to know what he would say.  
  
“For some time now, Melkor has been free from his confinement. He now walks Valinor as one lesser than any other, sharing his crafts and wisdom in recompense for the great ills done to all.”  
  
“He walks _free_? He _shares_?” this she repeated incredulously. “What is Manwë thinking - not only with destroying his shackles, but also _welcoming_ his words as if he is one fair and trustworthy of intention?”  
  
“There is no malice in our lord's heart, so much so that he does not think to expect it in others,” this Olórin said with a sigh. “And he is, first and foremost in his mind, a brother to the Black One, cut from the same cloth of our Father's spirit in the beginning of all things. Manwë loves, and for that love he hopes to see his faith returned.”  
  
But it could not be true . . . it _could not_. Melian looked down at her daughter's heavy eyes, seeing the contented expression on her face and knowing with a feeling of cold certainty that not eternally would such a peace be her own. She blinked, and could feel the far off strains of night; she could hear the howling of wolves, hunting and hungry; while, above all, she could see the light of a star seemingly caught within a jeweled casing as a desperate hand  <I>snatched</I>, and -  
  
\- but the vision faded away, as intangible as mist, and Melian was left with wisps of fading images, with only an impression of far off, distant feelings.  
  
“Then, when Melkor returns to these shores . . .” she processed her thoughts numbly, slowly. “When his feet once more touch the ground of Ennor. . .”  
  
“Which shall _not_ happen,” Olórin insisted, his voice surprisingly fierce in the hushed lull of the night.  
  
“Can you guarantee that?” she countered him. “You yourself said that Manwë is blind to his brother's true nature, and if Melkor returns . . .” She let out a breath, and knew with certainty: “The Valar will not march to contain his evil. They will stand still, leaving Middle-earth as a _toy_ to sate his fickle moods and black whims, all the while allowing my people to bear up underneath that burden. My daughter . . . her children . . . her children's children . . .”  
  
Melian could not breathe with the future playing out before her mind's eye, her form of bones suddenly constricting as her spirit swelled with a great and potent rage - seeing only swords held and crowns cast aside, seeing only the forests _burning_ as the sea rose to take it all, and -  
  
“ - no . . . no,” she hissed against the images swallowing her mind. “ _No_.”  
  
Lúthien turned in Olórin's arms, feeling the rise of her might – of her rage – and Melian bit back her anger before she disturbed her daughter from her sleep. She felt as if she'd swallowed a star for the way it burned through her pores and licked at the underside of her skin. She clenched her fingers, and made fists of her hands.  
  
“Mairon was right, if only in this regard,” she gave a dry laugh, devoid of humor. “We are forgotten here; we are forsaken. If the One looks upon us, it is as a _blinking._ Our fight will be our own in the days to come.”  
  
“And those words are the taint of this land speaking, not _Melyanna_ as I knew her,” a note of crossness entered Olórin's voice as he countered her fears and pains. “You have dwelt in Ennor for too long if you can no longer feel Ulmo in these waters, or know Yavanna's presence in these trees. Manwë scarce turns his eyes away from across the Sea, and Varda remembers those whom her stars shine for. Nienna weeps for every sorrow, even as Irmo and Estë heal all pains through dreams and slumber. All the while Námo provides peace for each one who falls in death, and he knows of their pains and loves better than any other.  
  
“Yet, even so,” Olórin gentled his voice, his hold on her daughter seemingly shielding her from some imagined harm – from some far off, inevitable day. “We are all bound by the will of the One, and what may seem cruel and slow to our eyes is not so to his. Despair and doubt are the finest tools of the Enemy. Thus so, our own thoughts and hearts are the first battlefields to conquer before we can even think to confront a foe beyond that. Only,” she felt the same light he'd entertained Lúthien with rise to touch her spirit, bolstering her in the way a tree would find succor from the spring rains, “there are times when we must all be reminded of this, and allow our strength to be bolstered by others in our turn.”  
  
Even so, she was slow to smile in reply to his words, and when she did, the corners of her expression were sad. For while he spoke the truth, true were her visions as well. True was the return of the Shadow, as was the certainty of the dawn lighting the arrival of a fight unlike any they had yet to face. And while fight they would . . . Melian looked down at her daughter, and knew that there would be casualties. Her heart ached with the knowledge that what she had struggled to claim and birth, she could lose with but a blinking of the eye. The bitter with the sweet, she had been so quick to proclaim, and yet . . . She breathed in deep, and let her breath out slow, physically calming herself as much as she took strength from the touch of Olórin's spirit.  
  
“When did you become so wise?” she at last asked when she could find her voice, forcing a weak smile to the thin line of her mouth.  
  
“I make a habit of keeping exceptionally fine company,” Olórin's expression was as gentle as his voice; for he understood all that she did not say, knowing of the days to come as well as she.  
  
“And exceedingly humble, too,” she intoned wryly.  
  
“I would merely say that I am mindful of my place, and quite comfortable there,” Olórin countered, looking down at the child he still held.  
  
Melian too looked at her daughter, finding her strength slowly returning to her. A moment passed, heavy with the shadow of the future, before he gave his last words. “Only, I would have you remember this, Melyanna: you are not so far away as you may think, nor as forgotten as you may sometimes feel.”  
  
They said no more than that, merely sitting in companionable silence as her daughter continued to sleep, and dream.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Flesh**  
  
Another season passed, and in the last days of summer Mairon's _gift_ at long last arrived.  
  
That was . . . if a gift if it could possibly be called.  
  
How such a being was able to walk through her wards, she did not know – but she had an idea, remembering how Mairon had first touched the spells protecting her people, contemplating the threads of Song that made up her shields with the same uncanny mind that had long since made him a master of craft. It was an evening of merriment and feast, with her people gathered in the Great Hall, and few watching the outer ways. Harps sang and flutes trilled, prompting dozens of couples to take to dancing after the courses had been served and cleared away.  
  
Melian was not dancing in favor with sitting with her husband's family, and she first knew of the creature's arrival only though the discordant note of the harp as the minstrel's faltered, as the dancing couples gasped, and the flurry of activity stilled for all eyes to turn to the entrance of the hall. And while there were whispers and exclamations of shock, Melian did not have to wonder, she did not have to question . . . she simply looked, and with a sinking feeling in her spirit, she understood.  
  
The ambassador for Mairon's words was a sickening creature to look upon; with grey skin peeling away from too many gashes and contusions to number, and twisted, broken limbs working awkwardly as it dragged its body from one painful step into the next. It did not seem to have any rational thought, with its snarled, incoherent syllables of some black speech . . . a speech disgustingly similar to that which the Valar used, she at last translated with no small amount of revilement, understanding with slow, horrible comprehension that which she saw before her.  
  
This being was of the _glamhoth_ . . . an Orc . . . one of the forebearers of the hosts of Screaming Ones they would know and battle in the later days. And what a twisted example it was, with little proclaiming it as one of the Firstborn but for the fey tips of its ears and that _something_ buried deep within its blank, unseeing eyes.  
  
Beleg and Mablung stepped forward with hands held on the hilts of their swords, wary of letting the creature any closer to the royal family. Yet, the twisted form showed no signs of aggression, nor did it exhibit any inclination towards violence. Instead it seemed lost . . . disoriented, as if it were searching, trying to find . . .  
  
In the end, it was Elmo who stood – Elmo who pushed the march-wardens aside with a disbelieving look to his suddenly wide eyes. A wave of denial rose from his spirit, followed by such a crippling rise of anger and _pain_ – so much so that Melian at once understood who this being was . . . who this being _had been_.  
  
“Move,” Elmo all but snarled when Beleg was slow to release his grip on his sword. “ _Move_ , she poses no harm. Not to you, not to _me_.”  
  
Melian glanced to see the hard, grim line of her husband's mouth, her worst suspicions confirmed with but a glance.  
  
Thingol stood, and waved a hand. “Stand aside,” he commanded his guard before turning to Elmo's grandsons. “Take my daughter, if you would. She needs see naught of this.”  
  
Lúthien, who was just now old enough to understand the sudden rise of hurt and _pain_ in the hall, looked up with wide, tearful eyes. Just as her lower lip started to quiver, Celeborn leaned down to scoop her up, cooing into the child's ear and promising that he would convince Thranduil to braid flowers into her hair. At Celeborn's side, Thranduil looked on the grandmother they had never known as if he dearly wished to stay, but the youth smiled in a forced way at the princess when Celeborn elbowed him, promising to see her any wish through to fulfillment as best he could.  
  
Once her daughter was safely away, Melian looked to see where Elmo was trying to approach the creature – his wife, she understood - her mind slow to understand and accept that one of the Firstborn could be so twisted, so _altered_ from the role they had first been created to fill. She stood, unsure of what to do, but knowing that something ought to be done. While the Orc made no violent movements, she was snarling in her indefinable tongue; anxious in her skin, and clearly ill at ease with the idea of Elmo coming any closer.  
  
Even still, he held his hands out, keeping his palms up and his stance free of threat. His voice was soothing, as if he spoke to some wild animal, wounded and trapped – and all the more dangerous for being so. His words were soft and his eyes were full, so much so that Melian found it hard to breathe around the suddenly crushing weight filling her, understanding Mairon's words then as she had not before.  
  
_Improving upon his siblings' creation_ , Mairon had said. _An outlet for his frenzies_ . . .  
  
This was, Melian thought with a consuming, _righteous_ anger filling her, capitol amongst Melkor's offenses - for him to pollute what had first been lovely, to profane that which had once been good and fair and _living_. She could not think around the proof of his deeds standing before her, seeing only the poor, twisted creature, and Elmo's despairing, _loving_ eyes . . . feeling as if she had somehow failed him – failed them all – by taking her own joy while such an evil was allowed to flourish and thrive upon the world she had once given her voice to _create_.  
  
All the while, the Orc was having nothing of Elmo's gentle coaxing. She bared her teeth as she took a restless stance, her twisted limbs flexing in agitation. There was no recognition in her eyes, no understanding in her words. Instead her hands tightened, making fists as Elmo came closer, and closer . . .  
  
When Elmo's gentle patience proved to be for not, and the Orc at last _lunged_ , Melian held up a hand and pushed on the turbulent spirit before her, coaxing her to stillness, to _sleep_. When she fell mid-lunge, Elmo only had to step forward to catch her, disregarding the twisted shape she bore in order to gently cradle her and settle her on the floor with the utmost gentleness. Wondrously, _horribly_ , he touched her face, tracing his hands over her scarred cheekbones, over the missing bridge of her nose, and the high, sloping shape of her forehead. He looked, not at her ruined cage of flesh, but rather for that which was hidden beneath the ruined hröa, lingering far beneath the putrid skin and the twisted bones . . . searching for that smallest spark of light, _of life_. It glimmered as an ember, where once it had shone as eternal as star-flame, but a light still it was.  
  
Melian looked, and knew that Elmo could feel what she felt. He clung to that spark, that _memory,_ and refused to let it go.  
  
“This _is_ her,” he looked to her, to Thingol, and the rest of his family beyond. “This is my Celebressil. I would know her anywhere. No matter that . . .” his voice failed him, and a low noise of grief and disbelief slipped from his mouth, horrified and pained.  
  
His sons slowly ebbed forward, their faces more open in displaying their horror than their father's. Even so, Galadhon knelt to place a heavy hand on Elmo's shoulder, trying to be a support and a strength as his face twisted with disbelief and pained recognition. Oropher simply stood over the broken form at his feet and stared, his eyes terribly blank and unseeing until Galadhon hoarsely hissed his name, breaking him from the haze that had taken him.  
  
Oropher too knelt, but his hand on his father's opposite shoulder was listless, and his eyes were as unseeing as Elmo's.  
  
Melian distantly heard Thingol send for the healers – their healers, who unfortunately knew too much of these wounds and their black deformation – but his doing so was a useless gesture, this even she knew. Her untrained eyes could see that which was in ruin, could feel what was already too lost to ever be found again. But they could not keep her here on the cold ground, and if an end was to come, its last words would not be written here.  
  
“Help me carry her,” Elmo found his voice, seeing through his grief to acknowledge his sons on either side of him. Galadhon blinked before moving to help his father, while Oropher was a moment later in answering.  
  
And helplessly, Melian watched, seeing where Elmo clung to her as if she were the very thing holding him afloat in stormy waters . . . where Galadhon touched her as if she were an injured child, too weak to withstand too strong a grasp . . . where Oropher's cold indifference hid what she could feel building as a maelstrom in his veins, reaching out to bite at the very air around him.  
  
Without thinking, she stepped towards the grieving family and added her support – holding her hands underneath the thin, knobby shoulder and feeling where the skin shifted at her touch, loosely hanging on to the form of ruined muscle beneath it. Her stomach twisted, leaving her seemingly weightless in her body as she realized the enormity of the harm done . . . for not only was there the ruin of her hröa, but a discord woven into the very Song of her spirit. It was a disharmony Melian could not keep from hearing, a dichotomy that struck her as well as any tangible blow against her body.  
  
. . . it was a song she could not forget, and did not ever . . . not even unto the End of Days.  
  
“I will help you,” she whispered. The words were so terribly not enough . . . but they were words she could not keep from uttering. And then, slowly, they carried the poor, broken creature away.  
  
  
  
.  
  
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**Body**  
  
The healers gathered in droves around Celebressil, but she could see it in their eyes and hands, she could feel it in the low, thick cloud that seemed to engulf the chamber: there was little they could do to fix that which had been so badly mutilated.  
  
Even so, they practiced their arts, they sung; even giving of their own fëar to aid the broken Song of Celebressil's spirit. She could see it in the eyes of all, that they practiced their arts while knowing of its futility – yet, all they had to do was take one look at Elmo's determined, unblinking expression to want to hope, and believe.  
  
All the while, Melian stood at her husband's side, wishing that there was something – anything – more she could do. Power burned at her fingertips, but it was a useless might, an impotent strength. She could do nothing, _nothing_ , to fix what had been so altered. And now . . .  
  
“We have succeeded in healing lesser evils than this,” Thingol whispered. “In the earliest of days, at least, before the Dark One better knew his arts. Yet, even then, those we'd healed tended to keep the North inside of them, breaking with seemingly little provocation – screaming in that horrible tongue, and blind to all that was fair around them. Now . . .” his words faltered. He had to try twice to speak them. “It was rare and rarer still, even before I met you, that our loved ones were ever returned to us. Mostly, we knew what to expect . . . and measures were taken with those we found, both in battle and outside. It was a cruelty, but a mercy, as well – and better one taken instead of putting those untouched at risk.”  
  
Melian understood his words and their meaning, but a part of her still rebelled against his saying so. Celebressil was still alive before them, _alive_ , and she could not imagine . . .  
  
“Her body may yet live,” Thingol spoke gently, hearing her thoughts as his own, feeling her wounds as his own pains, “but Celebressil has been gone for a long time now. There is naught left of her.”  
  
Even so, Melian could _feel_ the part of her that had buried itself deep in her consciousness. That _spark_ , that founding glow of their Father's light, was hidden deep within her . . . like a seed sleeping through wintertime. Even so, that ember was a cracked thing, a tired spark. Its glow faltered; it waned.  
  
A mercy, he'd said. Yet . . .  
  
The healers worked long into the unwaking hours, only announcing their efforts as futile with the dawn. Respectfully, they bowed before leaving the room to let the family say their farewells in private. Melian watched where Galadhon knelt by his mother's bedside and whispered into her ear. His words had no outward effect, but they nonetheless had that small spark warming – turning as if towards a great light. Oropher said nothing aloud, but she could feel where he found that small spark, just as she did, holding it tightly within his spirit's sight before slowly, softly, letting it go.  
  
When Oropher turned to leave, Galadhon was slow to follow him. And yet, at long last, he too turned, and left his parents alone.  
  
Melian was not sure how long she stood in the shadows with her husband, but long was it until the twisted form on the bed blinked . . . blinked, and opened its mouth in a low, soundless expression of pain and rage.  
  
Immediately, a sense of black discord filled the room as the Orc fought against the holds Melian's power had placed over her. A grimace contorted the wounds defining her face, and her eyes rolled unseeingly, staring as if far away – perhaps even now hearing the voice of the fiend who had sent her. Melian could feel _his_ power crawling about her bones and rising up to choke the air in the poor creature's lungs. It was consuming, as toxic and permeating as miasma, and there was naught she could do to help her breathe around it.  
  
She looked, and understood with a sinking feeling that she was not the only one who could feel Mairon's taint. Elmo inhaled a long and shaky breath, still unwilling to leave his wife's side, even as her fingers turned as claws against her sheets and her body turned taut with an anxious, restless energy.  
  
Melian pressed upon her spirit once more, and pushed her into sleep . . . but it was a slumber she could not permanently inflict. She could even now feel where the little that was left of Celebressil in the Orc's soul turned towards the purity of her power – desperate and so, so tired. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she could feel Námo lingering in the shadows, his presence waiting in the corners of the room . . . She could feel the tug of the Lord of Souls, uttering his siren's song even as he reached out to place a heavy hand on Elmo's spirit in both empathy and assurance.  
  
For a moment, she could not breathe in reply to his unspoken command, knowing then what she had to do, and yet rebelling violently against it.  
  
“She is trapped in this body, and I do not have the strength within me to let her free,” Elmo at last muttered. All the while, he looked down on her ruined hröa as if she were still something beautiful to behold, with one hand holding her bony fingers in his own while he soothed another through the tangled and remnants of her hair.  
  
“This is nothing . . . nothing we can heal, I know,” he continued to mutter. He swallowed, and his hold over her hands turned white; bloodless and clinging. “I have to believe that she would not harm me, nor anyone here . . . And yet . . . I do not think that she recognizes me, even now. I know what should be done . . . what _must_ be done. And yet . . .”  
  
Melian bowed her head against the weight of her good-brother's grief, even as Thingol came over to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. She could feel a glimmer of Námo's thoughts touch her own, urging her on. The Judge was merciful, he was not without pity, she knew. Someday, in time . . .  
  
“This burden is one that will not fall to you,” she at last said. She could still feel the waning, struggling soul in the destroyed body before her. She wrapped her presence over that ember, and knew that she could ever so gently overwhelm it . . . and with but a whisper send her home.  
  
“Say your farewells,” Melian at last forced her voice to form her words, more difficult to say than any she had yet to speak, “and I will let her go.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
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**Lungs**  
  
For months after Celebressil's death, Elmo was unmovable from his place.  
  
He did little more than was necessary to keep his body going; eating when he needed to eat, and sleeping when he needed rest. For the most part, he spent his days in quiet contemplation, his eyes unseeing and his ears unhearing to anything and everything around him. Where once Eglador had seemed a happy, joyous realm to her – and all the more so for Elmo's gentle humor and good cheer – it was now a quiet, solemn place as the prince mourned, and their people grieved with him.  
  
For the most part, his sons seemed to deal with their grief for their mother by coaxing their father from his apathy as best they could, saying:  
  
“Lúthien is dancing for you, Adar,” Oropher would force a note of brightness to his voice, one which did not quite reach his eyes. “She picked flowers from the clearing, can you not see?”  
  
“We've had visitors from the mountains again,” Galadhon tried where his brother failed. “Have you ever seen anything as curious as the Dwarves to your eyes?”  
  
Even so, Elmo would not move from his place in the trees, seemingly staring at nothing in the silver boughs before placing a finger against his mouth and bidding his sons, “I am speaking to your mother, can you not see?”  
  
Melian became used to the look of helpless grief that his sons wore whenever they received such an answer – a look her husband shared, though he held his features more schooled that Elmo's sons. His grief instead showing itself as a simmering anger, pooling as a helpless, incompetent rage to do something, _anything -_ and oftentimes his talks with their new found neighbors in the mountains turned to the forging of arms and armor, so much so that at times she feared for the shape of the future and the days it would bring. This was but a beginning, she knew, and if Melkor did indeed return to continue his work . . .  
  
Yet, that was a thought she swallowed away when it was her turn to sit with Elmo. Mostly they stayed in companionable silence, but when they did speak he would ask her of Námo, of Estë and Irmo and the other such healers of spirit. Over and over again she shared her memories of Lórien, of the peace and beauty that was the Gardens of Sanctuary in the West – where his wife would be succored, where she would heal, and perhaps even someday live again when the time for her was right.  
  
“And yet . . . what if she has yet to leave?” Elmo at last whispered. “I can feel her at times, not as a memory, but as a _presence_. This land . . .” he looked to her, and his eyes sharpened with clarity, with purpose, alerting her to the disquieting knowledge that it was not just his grief speaking, but the truth. “She loved this land; she loved these stars and trees and streams. She ever had little wish to cross the Sea, even before I realized my own desire to remain eternally bound to this land. Why would she go West, even for Lord Námo's call, when everything she knew and loved is _here_?”  
  
For a moment, Melian pondered his words. She let herself wonder. “I do not know,” she at last answered. “It is possible, in theory, for a fëa to linger and ignore Námo's summons. And yet . . .” she faltered, unsure.  
  
In truth, there had been so few deaths in their still-new world that she did not know how to answer the questions posed to her. She'd prayed to Námo, asking of the fate of Celebressil's spirit - of the fate of all those who'd been mutilated at Melkor's hand - but the Lord of Souls had only assured her that she was at peace, and healing. He was not blind to her, Námo had said in his voice of heartbeats and storm winds, and only now was Melian beginning to understand the full scope of his meaning.  
  
“Do you think it unnatural of her?” Elmo asked. His gaze sharpened upon hers to the point where she felt as if she held the eyes of one of the Valar themselves, so great was the light burning within.  
  
“I think that I can understand the hold of this land,” Melian replied, rather than answering him outright. “I can understand never wishing to leave that which I love and hold dear.”  
  
“And this place in particular she held dear,” Elmo tried to explain that for which there was no words. “I asked for her hand in this clearing, when we first stopped here on the Great Journey, and days later I wed her underneath the eyes of the One. In this same clearing I felt Oropher move for the first time in her womb, and here Galadhon took his first steps. It was here that I knew the happiest moments of my life, and it was _here_ she found her love for this land. She has yet to leave, and sometimes . . .  
  
“It frightens me, for there are days when I close my eyes, and feel as if I am slipping away to join her. I am so tired, so often, it seems. If I let myself rest, I know that I may not awaken again. It is an urge I battle, and yet . . .”  
  
Elmo inclined his head, leaning into the touch of the breeze as if it were a true caress upon his skin. When Melian blinked, she thought that she could feel for but a moment: a whisper on the wind, a faint touch of a hand upon her cheek, showing itself as a more tangible warmth than the last days of autumn. It was subtle, but it was real enough to be believed.  
  
He touched his hand to the bark of the tree, and his skin seemed translucent in that moment, the bones within as pale as the center of the stars above. He sucked in a deep breath, as if forcing his lungs to fill, all but commanding his heart to draw its next flow of blood. He willed himself to stay, and after the passing of a mere moment, the presence on the air faded away. Yet, still it remained . . . it lingered . . . patient and _beckoning_.  
  
And Melian said no more where words could not be spoken. Instead, she simply took her good-brother's hand in her own, silent and thoughtful as she pondered the will of her Father, and the unforeseen effects of the world they created together.  
  
  
  
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**Speech**  
  
When her daughter was still a child, but old enough to understand the notes of the Song and feel them in her bones, Melian sat her before her Mirror.  
  
“I already know how to sing,” Lúthien smiled to say. She was a truly happy child; joyous in all her ways, and ever bringing joy to others. “Daeron tells me that I have a lovely voice, that is why he likes to write so many songs for me.”  
  
“And yet, this is no mere song I would show you,” Melian said, reaching out so that her fingertips hovered over the still waters in the basin. “This is something different . . . something more.”  
  
She had ever sang to her daughter the Songs of old; highlighting the words of power and repeating the melodies of life so they would ever resound in her child's heart. Now, all she had to do was sing once more; slowly, allowing Lúthien to _see_ the strains of the ultimate Music around her. For now, she would teach her daughter to recognize the Songs, but she had great faith that someday Lúthien would be able to recreate them anew – for aptly was she named, and great was the mantle of _more_ and _other_ that had settled upon her child of heaven and earth.  
  
“Why are you showing this to me?” Lúthien asked, solemn as she breathed in with the last strains of her song, the power of the melody linger as the notes themselves faded away.  
  
“It is your heritage, your responsibility to bear,” she answered simply. “Should you someday need them, I would not have them far beyond your reach, but rather at your fingertips, ready for the use.”  
  
Melian swallowed against her own whispers of foreboding, her own flickerings of doubt and unease for the days to come - an unease she not only knew for awaiting Mairon's next move, nor for what she had witnessed with Elmo and his wife - but rather for the mar upon Arda itself. It was for this that she taught her daughter, cultivating her strength – her power - so that she could in turn protect those she held dear when the days to come turned dark. This was the greatest gift she had within her to give, and so, give it she would.  
  
Lúthien was quiet for a long moment in reply, but she was the one to next turn to the Mirror and sing. Quietly, Melian listened, and let her daughter's voice wash over her as a cool and cleansing thing.  
  
The next day, Lúthien sat still at Elmo's side, and took her uncle's hands within her own.  
  
“Would it please your lady if I sang?” she bid of him, looking into his eyes with the utmost seriousness.  
  
Elmo did not say yes or no as to her request, hardly even blinking as the child sat by his side and started to sing with her clear, bright voice. Melian listened as she wove together notes of healing and comfort, spinning them alongside strains of remembrance and hope, unconsciously, perhaps, plucking out the melodies of memory that filled Elmo's clearing to create her song. Many stopped to listen to Lúthien sing, soft expressions upon their faces, while amongst the trees, a spectral presence lingered, and Melian felt as she listened.  
  
For the first time in the seasons since his wife's death, the Unbegotton-lord smiled, and looked away from the trees . . . at least, for a little while.  
  
  
  
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**Song**  
  
Elmo lasted to the next spring before fading away to join his wife's spirit.  
  
It was a passing that truly surprised none, though grief still laid upon their family as a shroud as Eglador filled with lamentation. Songs rose from hundreds of mouths as all those beneath the trees mourned one they had long followed with missing and bittersweet farewell.  
  
“I can still hear him,” Thingol whispered when she found him sitting where Elmo had long attended his vigil underneath the trees. “He remains here; his spirit has not yet crossed the Sea.”  
  
Melian came to sit next to him, feeling the cool grass underneath her dress and the bark of the tree against her back as she leaned her head against her husband's shoulder. The clearing was quiet, with only the far off echoes of the lament sang for Elmo reaching them. Even so, there was a familiar whisper amongst the boughs above their heads . . . a familiar presence waiting on the air, poignant on the breeze . . . there was a veil before the far off glow of the stars, hiding the light of the heavens away.  
  
Thingol was silent for a long moment, and she focused instead on the long draw of his breath, on the slow beat of his heart, rather than the ghostly reminders of those departed . . . the ghostly proof of that which even now remained. She wound her hand through his own, and felt where he squeezed her fingers in return, taking the strength she offered him.  
  
And, at long last, he spoke: “In the West, when we first visited as ambassadors for our people, we asked what became of those fallen – especially for those who had lost their loved ones in the dark pits of the North. We were answered with assurances that they would come when Námo called, and there in his Halls find healing and an eventual rebirth. Yet, nothing was ever said . . .”  
  
He swallowed, and had to try again to find his words. “Nothing was ever said about those who refused his call . . . about those who remain.”  
  
Melian was silent for a long moment in reply. “I once had this same conversation with Elmo,” she said, her voice gentle as she reached over to hold his spirit with her own. As natural as a breath, she felt his presence wind through hers until she could not tell his thoughts from her own, her pains and questions and love from his. “Since then, Námo has revealed none of his mysteries to me. He has only said that they are at peace, and through that peace they find healing.”  
  
“But shall they heal _here_?” Thingol asked, his voice full with his grief – with his missing. “How will they find their way if they never leave these trees, if they never . . .” He had to swallow, his words still too great upon his heart for him to speak.  
  
“In some ways, is this not the same as you having not of the inclination to dwell in the West? Is this not the same as your people's desire to dwell beneath these trees?” Melian answered his fears the best way she knew how. “Who is to say that this too is not through design of the One? Who is to say that they do not find peace and healing _here_? And, in time . . .”  
  
She breathed in deep, and looked up at the swaying silver canopy above them, still lost deep within Yavanna's slumber, awaiting for a light even greater than that of the stars. “In time, all souls will find their way home. For now; home is here, and here they shall remain. It is not to us to judge, and find their path wanting. Not in this.”  
  
Thingol loosed a deep breath, and she turned so that she rested her head on his chest, his arm coming to drape over her shoulders in an easy weaving of bodies. He was silent as he considered her words, and for a long moment they lingered, quiet in the clearing. Until: “Can you hear that?” he whispered at last.  
  
“The lamentation?” she asked.  
  
“ _They_ add their voices to the song,” Thingol gave on a low voice. “I can hear them, and in that song . . .”  
  
Melian closed her eyes, and heard amongst the mourning and the grief a whispered strain of peace . . . notes of longing and contentment and the slow crescendo that came with reunion. She turned towards the song, feeling its tendrils seemingly reach out to wrap tightly about her soul. In reply, she further tucked herself into her husband's embrace, and listened to them sing.  
  
  
  
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**Fist**  
  
That night, there was a visitor amongst the outermost eaves of Neldoreth.  
  
His was a presence she had been expecting; one she waited for, even, and this time she did not have to come as one summoned. Instead, she stepped out from behind the trees with a strong side as he materialized into being, feeling as a sharp and warring creature in reply to the slight he had inflicted on she and hers. In reply, his posture was lazy with a coiled ease as he turned towards her; his smile was a slow, dangerous slant upon his face, as if he were a cat chasing mice in the kitchens.  
  
“What did you think of my gift?” Mairon asked, steepling his hands together so that they touched the tip of his chin. His eyes burned as he spoke. “She was a thing of beauty, was she not?”  
  
“I grieved to see how one of the Children was twisted, and the pain that brought to others in turn,” Melian replied, tilting up her chin and forcing the strain of rancor from her voice. “I do not understand your motives for showing me so, if you truly wish to win my compliance.”  
  
“Do you not?” Mairon raised a copper brow. “Did I not show that nothing is untouchable in this land? We are all naught but my Master's to do with as he pleases; yet he does know how to reward his faithful followers. Perhaps he would return more of your people as a gesture of good faith, if you would but turn the might of you and yours to his disposal, swearing fealty to he who is the true One.”  
  
“You cannot return that which was never yours to begin with,” Melian disagreed. “Can you not feel it, Mairon? The Song fairly screams in discord for that which your lord has created, and I would not give my voice to any verses of his.”  
  
“And yet, it is that very discord that _birthed_ this world. Everything the Song has created is by right and power my Master's.” Mairon returned harshly. “Do you not understand? He could crush them all; turn them to dust and houseless spirits that will not sing as prettily as your lost good-brother upon the wind. We are all but tools to his hand, and it is to _him_ to see where best we are used.”  
  
“And yet, Melkor too was made to create as our Father bid him create. He is not the One, no matter his great strength. He too was created; he is not the Creator.” This she clung to as an absolute; the only unquestionable truth. “No matter his might, he is still only _second_ , and I will serve nothing less than that which is first.”  
  
Her words rang in the clearing with an awful finality, the trees seemingly holding the syllables of sound before releasing them to the night. Melian stood still, watching as Mairon turned from his place with a liquid sort of grace. He circled her as a wolf would a wounded animal, allowing her to feel the way his fair intentions turned, the way his silence lined with a dangerously calm consideration.  
  
“Your decision wounds me, Melyanna,” Mairon intoned in a voice full of anything but. “Our of all of our siblings, you alone have shone some uniqueness of spirit - and I admired you for that. Yet, perhaps I misjudged you.”  
  
The fair facade he presented then cracked, the warm shade of his skin darkening to swallow the handsome planes of his face, leaving only the terrible flames of his gaze recognizable as his spirit contorted before her eyes. His bared his teeth, his fingers taking on the shape of claws as a wave of molten might rushed towards her. Though she could not truly be destroyed, her hröa could certainly be felled – especially as physically as she had created her body to birth her daughter. She could not even retreat as a spirit and suffer the wound of his power as the seashore bearing up against the might of the ocean. Instead, she had to -  
  
Not thinking, she held up a hand, and thought _still_ and _calm_. She exerted her own will, and watched with a sort of horrified fascination as the great cast of his power washed harmlessly over the small sphere she had unconsciously erected. The molten colours of gold and scarlet hit her barrier, turning to the darkest of purples before dissolving harmlessly in the night air.  
  
Not to be deterred, Mairon released another wave of power; she could feel his strength as it built, rather than depleted, and still she held up her hands and thought _no_ and _cease_. She closed her eyes, feeling as one with the deep roots and the sleeping ground, feeling as the stars danced behind her eyes while the babble of the river seemingly flowed through her veins in place of blood. There was the Song in them all, and through the force of her will she became that Song, refusing to let his discord harm her.  
  
And, calmly, she held up her hands. She opened her eyes, and let all that had been building behind her protection _free_. A blinding wave of pure energy, colourless but for the white glow of _light_ rushed towards him, and she saw nothing but the flame of his gaze as he _blinked_ -  
  
\- and disappeared.  
  
She could still feel a whisper of his rage and promise in the clearing, for his retreat was but a momentary thing, and ever would his eye be upon her people and their doings. She looked, distraught to see the blackened remnants of the trees and the burned scar his power inflicted upon the ground. The silver grasses were no more, and the once blooming flowers were now crippled, charred things upon the land.  
  
And yet . . . Melian looked down at where her sphere of protection stood, seeing only a circle of healthy, thriving grass, untouched from the full brunt of Mairon's soul of heat and forge-fire.  
  
For a long time she stared, and barely . . . just barely, an idea began to take root within her mind.  
  
  
  
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**Bones**  
  
Their quarters in Belegost were grand by Dwarven standards – worthy of the far off West, even, for which their host, King Ginnar, beamed to hear. He took her compliment with pride, eager as he was for her to relate tales of Aulë's own mansions in Valinor beyond. She enjoyed telling all she could, for she had a devoted and adoring listener in the ears of the Dwarf-king - just as she had a curious audience in her own Sindarin followers, who were ever as children before a bard to hear her stories of Valinor beyond.  
  
Yet, even more of a delight for Melian was this visit being the first her daughter traveled to the mountain halls. Great was Lúthien's curiosity for anything and everything around her, just as was the Dwarves' amazement for her in turn. Her clear voice echoed off the stone ways as she explored the seemingly endless halls, and though she was not yet a woman grown, many were those who stopped and looked to stare in awe at her fairness.  
  
“If I could cast a ware to match the beauty of her voice,” the Dwarf-king smiled to say, “then unequal would be any piece yet cast in the forges of this world – and hard pressed would be any work of two hands to follow.”  
  
“You honor us merely by wishing to try,” Thingol said to Ginnar, and the Lord of the Broadbeams was then quick to go on about the jewels and ores at his disposal – for which her husband listened intently, having ever been interested in the craft of steel since its properties for defense had first been learned. For their latest visit, Ginnar had the Dwarves' invention of chain-mail to boast of, and Thingol was already bartering the best price to see his march-wardens properly outfitted in the days to come.  
  
Melian listened to them speak with half an ear as her eyes traced over the beauty of the underground halls. The stone of the mountain was nigh unbreachable, and the sheltered ways were all but untouchable to any who were not welcome by the King Under the Mountain. Thoughtfully, her eyes were drawn to the grace and awe-inspiring forms the Dwarves were able to coax from the seemingly unyielding stone. As they passed a bridge over a great courtyard of sparkling fountains, she looked down below to see where Lúthien was pulling Celeborn and Thranduil on to more quickly follow their Dwarven guides, the quick turn of her voice echoing as she asked the names and stories behind every wonder they passed.  
  
The ideas her mind had been swimming with as of late suddenly settled upon her with a great and coaxing pressure. She felt words gather in the back of her mouth, the same as they had when her Father had moved her to sing with the celestial choir of her siblings. Then, she could hold them back no more.  
  
“The forests of Eglador grow over a great network of stone caverns,” she found her words developing of their own accord, a great weight to their speaking. “You have had chance to see them, have you not, Good-king?”  
  
“The stone is near as to what makes our own Gabilgathol,” Ginnar said after a moment's thoughtful consideration. “A good blue stock it is; elegant and strong.”  
  
He looked at her curiously, a look which her husband shared, though he quickly gleaned enough from her mind to stop and blink at her in surprise, seeing both the fervency of her determination and the _rightness_ with which she believed this course to hold.  
  
“Is there a reason that my lady Maia asks?” Ginnar bid of her, his eyes sharp and canny as he spoke.  
  
“I have an idea,” she slowly replied. “A great idea . . . and yet, it is one that the Elves cannot accomplish alone. It would need the might of the Dwarves, and if it is accomplished, it shall go down in song as one of the greatest works of two hands since the Song of Creation itself.”  
  
Ginnar's eyes glittered with a greedy light – not for the idea of payment, which a Dwarf was always eager to see, but rather, for the thrill and enticement of _creation_ , cast as they truly were in the likeness of Aulë their father.  
  
“You have the ears of this Dwarf,” he was eager to say, but once again his eyes were bright and discerning. “And yet, I see where you have given an early voice to a thought that has long weighed upon your mind. Discuss it amongst yourselves, and when you decide upon your course, show it to me as well.”  
  
Ginnar looked to Thingol, and after inclining his head, he respectfully took his leave – falling back to speak with Oropher and Galadhon, and thus giving her a moment to speak with her husband in private.  
  
Yet, little more needed to be said as she felt her husband's mind sift through her own, quickly spying out both her reasons and her wants more quickly and thoroughly than any spoken words could ever do.  
  
“How long has this been weighing upon you?” he asked.  
  
“Since Elmo's death,” she answered truthfully. “And perhaps even before that. It was then but the bare bones of an idea, but after seeing the ways of Belegost, after encountering . . . ” she had not the words for Mairon's visit, for Mairon's words of warning, and she felt as Thingol's own spirit turned molten with a hot rage at the shape of her shared memories. His hands made fists, and even those behind him looked to see what had caused their King such an anger – their faces only softening when they assured themselves that it was not their Queen, but rather, a force beyond the mountain that moved him.  
  
“It is true, then,” he said in a voice as hard as the stone ways they passed through. “The Shadow stands poised to return, and when it does . . .”  
  
“It will be to us to protect our people, to protect this land,” Melian confirmed aloud the horrible truth that had long been growing within her. “Those of Ennor have long paid the price for loving this land, and this time, I fear that toll will grow only higher. And yet . . .”  
  
She let him see the last moments of her battle against the Dark Maia – how she had stood there, untouched by his rage; how the ground beneath her feet had been unburnt, no matter Mairon's might or strength of power. The grass had thrived, the flowers continued to bloom, and if she could . . .  
  
“An entire realm,” Thingol finished for her. “Protected and untouchable.”  
  
“And free from the Shadow and its taint,” her voice was a bright, breathless rush for the idea. "A kingdom where our people may live sheltered, and our children's children remain safe from the dark of the North. A part of me believes that this may even be the ultimate will of the One in allowing me my happiness with you. If we can but fight back a fraction of that shadow, and help those others toiling in this land . . .”  
  
Her eyes flickered to the Dwarven realm around them, and she set her jaw. She found her purpose, and made it a strength deep within her. “Prepare our allies; ready our people, and we shall force the Shadow to fight for every parcel of land it seeks to darken,” she said, her voice low and fierce with her belief. Below, her daughter laughed, and the magic of the mountain-kingdom seemed to shimmer in reply. She closed her eyes against the sound, feeling her determination anchor within her as if she were the great mother tree of the forest, her roots reaching out to succor each of the mighty shapes around her in turn.  
  
Thingol stopped in the path, and reached over to tilt up her chin. The Tree-light within his eyes was very bright in that moment, feeding off and in turn brightening her own. He leaned down to touch his forehead to hers, and when she inhaled, she shared his breath.  
  
“My queen,” he said on an exhale, his awe and admiration a near touchable thing.  
  
“My own,” she replied, and found that her _everything_ resided in her words, making them full to the speaking.  
  
Everything, she thought . . . everything she had left behind – everything that others would say she _sacrificed_ for the surety of her husband at her side, for the unparalleled joy of being able to hear her daughter laugh in unsullied joy - was then inconsequential. The trust of her people was as a strength at her back, further fortifying her, and even the great halls of the Dwarves hinted at what else may be theirs to protect and draw near once the days drew on. She was but a small part in a vast plot, but even one thread in a great tapestry – a celestial and eternal work that only her Father could see - was a weighty role, and she was more than ready to do her utmost to play her part.  
  
“My lord Ginnar,” Thingol turned to say. “My lady has had a vision that we wish to share with you. And, with your hands alongside our own, we would wish your aid in seeing that vision come true.”  
  
And so, she shared with the Dwarf-king her fears and hopes, setting in place the bones of what would come to be a great building – an answer to the dark forces who would see the light of their land extinguished - _their_ land, _her_ home, which she had grown to hold so very dear.  
  
_I will no longer look on our creation and find it wanting_ , she thought. _For this is what we have strove for, and I will see it protected and preserved._ No longer would she let the shadow be as a veil before the light of the stars.  
  
So, they spoke, and slowly, they began to build.


	69. "sleep I cannot find, nor light"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Idril || Prompt: Bottled-up, Free-write
> 
> This can be read as a follow-up to Chapter 23, though reading that isn't necessary to understand this update. While I know that post-Thangorodrim!Maedhros has been done to death (wonderfully so, may I add), hopefully this is a slightly different take for you to enjoy. So - enjoy! :)
> 
> That said, there is a **WARNING** here for the aftermath of torture, and PTSD. If that is something you are uncomfortable with, this update is not for you.

It was the black hour just before dawn, but he had yet to know of sleep the whole night through.  
  
It was simply, really: sleep bore dreams, and dreams held memories; both the good and the ill. Maedhros did not have the strength for the ill, nor did he have the heart to bear the good; so, most nights he spent with his eyes open, staring at the canvas walls of his tent. He let the dull tones sooth his eyes while he listened in silence to the soft rumble of the lake and the whispered movement of his uncle's encampment just beyond.  
  
Yet, there were some nights when he did not need sleep to call the memories forward. Sometimes his waking mind plagued him as much as his slumbering one, dragging and pulling him from one dark precipice in his mind to the next. Such was not uncommon, he was assured, for Angband was more than any mere fortress, and the torments he'd suffered within those black halls were more than those simply inflicted upon flesh and bone. Morgoth's seat was miasma to the breath and a taint within the ground itself; one could not simply walk through it without being unscathed, and to have suffered and endured for so long . . .  
  
There were times when he saw wonderment and awe in the eyes of his Sindarin healers . . . and sometimes, a very real disquiet followed that wonder, that amazed disbelief. For who was _he_ to survive where so many had fallen before him? Who was _he_ for Morgoth to delight in while leaving his hröa and fëa relatively intact – his mind unbroken, and his body free of Orc-ish confines? Some feared that he was nothing more than a cleverly planted tool, ready to turn on them as a blade in the night – and, such fears were not completely unfounded, based on other tales he had heard of those who survived Angband equally so 'unmarred'. It was a thought that he himself wondered for at times, feeling as if he carried the north as a stone in the pit of his gut, and wondering what that taint would do through his hands.  
  
On the worse nights, a voice within him – a voice that sounded painfully like his father's - muttered that such was not Morgoth's taint, but his own actions, his own vows and deeds, and those were the nights he did not sleep for fear of dreaming.  
  
Other times, Maedhros did not quite know how to say that he knew his _rescue_ to be another torment on Morgoth's part. The Vala had tired of his torment, and he was _delighted_ for the idea of one of Fëanor's fire trying to pull himself together again – only for the chains of his Oath to finish his fine work more cruelly than he could have ever scripted his end. Maedhros could still remember the thunder and black weight that was Morgoth's voice, sounding into his heart, rather than his ears, and the belief and _knowing_ of his prediction had been as painful as any physical wound. Morgoth would simply watch, and wait. Eventually, no matter the years it took, great would his vengeance be . . . and he'd have to do naught but lift a finger to make it so. The glow of the Silmarils had been close then, _so close_ as the Vala leaned down to share his breath with his saying so. The holy light of the gems had stung his eyes, but he'd not the strength to move, to _strike_ , no matter the chains of his Oath insisting that he act, that he _take_. His pain in both body and spirit had been acute in that moment, and Morgoth had only laughed in reply.  
  
While Morgoth's foresight was a fate that Maedhros balked against, there were times when he closed his eyes, and it was not his memories waiting for him, but the inky bonds of his Oath . . . whispering . . . _demanding_ . . . On those nights, his nightmares were not of Angband, but of _before_ – of a seashore stained red, and the glow of flames setting the horizon alight when all else was darkness around them. On those days, he would awaken, choking on the remembered taste of ash and iron. He would clench his one fist, and feel as if he held the slick hilt of his sword, and the memories would be there . . . _right there_ , waiting. He could not cast them aside, and in that there was a torture all its own.  
  
Sometimes, he could hear the way his brothers spoke in low, fierce whispers with Fingon – and he knew the even more terrible silence they held for Fingolfin as a knife-blow, few as those times were when his uncle sought him out. Relations between their families were still as a spark, waiting to take flame – with fallen souls the sundered bonds of kith and kin lying torn between them. He had thoughts . . . _ideas_ of how to mend that breach, but first, he had to focus on his own traitorous mind, on his own unwieldy limbs. Only then could he be of use to his family; only then could he call himself fit to lead or give counsel in any way.  
  
And it was that, in part, that had him rising when there would of, perhaps, been more sense in his staying abed. Over a year had passed since Fingon had spirited him away from Thangorodrim, and only the last month or so had him attempting to stand and walk again. In the beginning, he had mostly slept as his body furiously tried to mend and his mind turned to darkness in order to shield the fragile state of his psyche with the peace of black oblivion. Afterward, it was simply that his body _could not_ support his weight or movement of any kind. Bones had been misaligned; muscles had been left to wilt and heal over their pains in unnatural and twisted shapes; tendons had been cut and ligaments turned unwieldy to the point where the healers had looked and marveled over the idea that he had not yet given up the will to _live_. Through their whispers, he knew that they doubted whether or not he would ever know even _half_ of his former strength – his former dexterity and function - again. Yet . . .  
  
Maedhros did not have a mind for the body or its mending, he only knew that there was still a great and terrible flame at the core of him – his father's fire, many would say – and he was not yet ready to relinquish his recovery as another victory of Morgoth. Some days . . . when the memories grew to overwhelm him, and his mind balked before reliving those harrowing years . . . he knew despair, but it was not yet enough to cripple him. It was not yet enough to _define_ him.  
  
Even so, Fëanor's fire or not, he needed the assistance of a page to dress to go beyond his tent. It was an ignoble process, but one he was growing used to – and he recovered enough sense of self by allaying the anxious elf's fears that _yes, I am well enough to walk unattended_ , and _no, you need not summon_ _a healer, nor my brother_. It was a minor victory, but a victory nonetheless when he put up the hood to his cloak, and walked with a slow, unhurried stride through his uncle's camp.  
  
This was the first time he had walked on his own, unaided and unaccompanied, since returning from Thangorodrim. He had walked on either his brother's or his cousin's arm for the most part, and used crutches for long after that when he was able to – cleverly designed by Curufin so that he needed not of a hand to use the right-most one. The crutches had been gone for nearly a fortnight, and he now had a staff he used to aid his weak legs in supporting his paltry weight. It felt odd and ungainly, using his left hand about the staff, rather than his right - but it was better than walking arm and arm with another being whenever he was able to convince his keepers that he was well enough for movement.  
  
And so, he pushed on, albeit slowly.  
  
The sun had barely begun to crest the mountains, and mist danced in billowing and spectral curtains amongst the neat and tidy rows of tents. Beyond the camp, he could see the ghosty shell of where a more permanent settlement was being built, with strong Noldor lines and elegantly twining spires that would be one of their first claims upon the lands of Middle-earth. For a moment, Maedhros stared, and then continued onwards.  
  
Beyond Fingolfin's camp, Lake Mithrim was a dark violet underneath the overcast sunrise. The mists were thicker here, making the path over the rocky shore treacherous. Slowly, and carefully, he made it to where the great slabs of slate and granite gave way to a pebbled beech. He moved to stand toe to toe with the surf, looking down at the still water as he took a moment to catch his breath. The morning air was sweet in his mouth, and he swallowed against his memories of ash and smoke. His mind was uneasy with the fog, even though he was far from the miasma of Thangorodrim. No matter how he shaped his thoughts, his body was slow to believe what his mind told him, and his hand about his staff trembled for more than simple fatigue.  
  
He bit back a curse as he rested more weight on his staff, looking down to find his reflection in the glass of the water . . . his reflection, which he had not seen since that long-ago day when he'd readied to meet Morgoth for his travesty of a parlay. There had been no mirrors in Angband, and neither was there a looking glass in his tent. One had not been provided, and he had not yet the heart to request one.  
  
Slowly, he knelt down, filled with a morbid curiosity for the stranger he now saw staring back at him. His cheekbones were gaunt, and the bones of his body sharp and jutting to form harsh angles. He was painfully thin to look upon, wasted away to the barest shell of a form, and upon that shell . . . a gross reminder of Morgoth's cruelties remained in a telling map of silver and red; some wounds still healing, and some marked as scars, forever there to say. He blinked back against his memories, able to recall each and every brand or burn or blade that had touched him, even as he forced himself not to linger in his mind - not now. Wincing, he saw where the copper curtain of his hair fell to just barely brush his chin – for, so matted and tangled had it been that there was no hope for saving it. It had not been the first time a blade had touched his hair, for Morgoth himself had shorn the red mass the first time, in those early days, when he had still burned with defiance and hate. Yet, what he had then thought to be _humiliating_ had proved to be but a drop in an ocean when the full brunt of Morgoth's _hospitality_ was shown . . .  
  
Yet . . . the worst alteration done to his body was his darkened eyes. That dimming was not Morgoth's fine work, but rather his own Oath and foolish vow of tongue marring the nearly silver glow of his gaze. It was that, more so than anything else that had rage and despair filling him, and he slashed a hand through the shallow water, destroying the illusion with a satisfyingly savage gesture.  
  
The water felt good against his clammy skin, cool to the point of being cold, but refreshing – cleansing, even. He blinked as the lake soothed itself over, and as his reflection returned to stare at him, he made his decision.  
  
It was relatively simple to shrug aside his cloak, and though his tunic was more of a challenge, he nonetheless braved on through the task. He unlaced his boots and rolled up the hem of his pants, not trusting himself to be able to don them again if he managed to get them off. The water of the lake was shallow here, and he waded out into the clear, still depths until he was waist-deep. Coldness bit at his skin and snapped at his bones, but he paid the discomfort no heed in favor of reveling in the embrace of the water – the soothing pull of the faint current, tugging at his limbs as his feet sank into the sand and pebbles.  
  
When the water was deep enough, he cast aside caution and submerged himself, allowing the lake to swallow him like a womb. He was able to float well enough without using too much of his body's strength, but he could already feel where muscles long unused protested their treatment. Determinedly, he ignored his own pains, lingering until his fingertips pruned and his body filled with a chill that could no longer be borne. Yet, the discomfort meant little in the face of the few moments of weightless peace he'd been able to steal - buoyed by the softness of the morn and held by the crystal depths of the water . . . It was worth it, and though he struggled for his breath due to exertion, he at last felt as if he could _breathe_.  
  
His muscles were pained to the point of screaming by the time he pulled himself back to the shore, but he did not care. He had wished to swim, and he had swum. It did not matter that his lungs burned, that his maligned limbs were sore to the point of danger. He felt triumph fill him as he sat on the rocky shore with a dark satisfaction, glaring to the north as if by doing so he had turned a dagger on the Shadow itself.  
  
. . . while, even so, another part of him despaired over even the simplest of motions suddenly being a mountain of movement, a nearly insurmountable hurdle. It was a long road before him, a seemingly unending one, and he was already weary . . . so very weary.  
  
_Time_ , the Sindarin healers liked to mutter in their kind voices, with their kind eyes alight. Time was all he needed, for body and mind and soul. _Time_ , Fingon whispered with so much belief, so much faith that it was a blow of its own . . . _Time_ , Maglor would echo with such a hope to his voice - as if there was absolution for his own soul in his recovery. For it was more for his brother and his cousin that Maedhros struggled to pull the sundered pieces of himself back together once more. It was not quite for his own sake he did so.  
  
_Time_ , Maedhros despaired, when each second on the path ahead seemed to draw out and gouge its remorseless hands into his skin. _Eternity_ , he could not yet fathom the idea when mere _moments_ were burdens of their own to bear.  
  
Frustrated, he sucked in a deep breath, still unable to properly fill his lungs for the way they heaved. He had soaked the bandages over the stub of his wrist, and they now sagged and fell loose, revealing more of the ruined skin than he cared to see. It was a part of himself he tried to ignore as best he could, as if by ignoring it he could make it as if it had never been.  
  
_Like_ _Carnistir_ _with_ _vegetables_ _on his plate as a child_ , he thought with an amusement that was dark and bitter. He felt a painful tightening about his abdomen that may have been an attempt at laughter, but he could not be certain.  
  
When his exhausted muscles at last ceased their trembling, he moved to shrug on his tunic with a painfully slow, halting range of motion. He had to carefully move around the newly healed muscles of his upper back, chest, and right shoulder – which had molted together and deformed as the result of hanging for so long. He was just now free to breathe without that damnable brace the healers had inflicted upon him, and he did not care to return to it due to one ill-thought outing. In the end, it was more determination that he clothe himself, more so than any strength of his body, that had him triumphant in his task – at least, as triumphant as he could be with his arms quivering and his lungs heaving as they draw in each breath.  
  
In the back of his mind, he could hear Morgoth _laugh_. He could hear the silky purr of his Lieutenant, prodding the broken lines marring his body and praising the _beauty_ that his mother had named him for. _Maitimo_ , the Dark Maia had sung where once Nerdanel had whispered in love – so much so that he swallowed back bile at the memory, the same as he determinedly pulled down his sleeve over his wrist, as if doing so was to stand tall against _them_ , spoiling their fine work and proving it all for naught.  
  
He was able to struggle into his boots with one hand, but he looked at the laces next, feeling completely stumped as he regarded them. He could, he reasoned, walk back to his uncle's camp with them unlaced. But, he did not want to bear with the looks, the stares that would be both hard and pitying by turns, depending on whose eyes he met.  
  
. . . no, Maedhros at last decided. He would conquer this.  
  
He sat there for longer than he would later admit to, the once dexterous cast of his mind bent on the simple schematics of forcing the laces to bend to his will. So engrossed in his task, he did not at first notice the soft step approaching him – not until the figure was already standing right before him, peering down at his labours with a curious eye.  
  
“There is a trick to tying laces with one hand,” a voice spoke, warm and pleasant to the ear. “If you wish it of me, I would share my wisdom.”  
  
Maedhros blinked in surprise, and looked up, peering to see a woman standing in the mist – a tall woman, with a head of dark blonde curls, near to the shade of honey, and eyes the tellingly clear grey of Finwë's house. He frowned at the familiarity of her features, swearing that he knew her dimpled smile . . . the line of her nose . . . the sharp arch of her brow . . .  
  
“Itarillë?” he asked, somewhat stupidly. “ _Little_ Itarillë?”  
  
The girl's – _woman's_ – soft smile in reply answered his question more so than anything else. By the Valar, but the colt-ish girl-child he'd known from his grandfather’s halls was no more. She had grown since he'd seen her last, grown in body as surely as the Darkening and the Helcaraxë had seen to the death of innocence about her mind.  
  
“It is I,” she answered, coming closer. “Though I have taken to Idril now,” she switched from Quenyan to Sindarin easily enough, before switching back to the former for his sake. While he was picking up the tongue of the Grey-folk quickly enough, he was still more comfortable with the language of his birth - especially when his mind was left reeling in such a way before him.  
  
“Idril,” Maedhros tried the name on his tongue. “ _Idril_.”  
  
“Mm,” she agreed in the back of her throat. “As you are Maedhros now?” she inquired. After a moment, she inclined her head. “It is a fitting name, in more ways than one.”  
  
_More fitting than Maitimo_ , he thought, but did not say. Nonetheless, the thought was loud between them, no matter its lack of speaking.  
  
And yet, she moved on from the subject gracefully, elegantly folding her body to sit down next to him on the rocks. “I believe that I offered to show you how to manage your laces one handed,” she reminded him. “I would do so now, if you would allow me.”  
  
She was looking at him – at _his eyes_ – he thought with no small amount of discomfort, not understanding how she could do so so easily. She did not stare at the scars lining his face, or gawk at his shadowed gaze and missing right hand. She looked at him as if he were still whole and hale before her, untouched in body and mind, and he did not quite know how to take in her accepting, easy demeanor – as if this were merely another day in Aman, and he was simply family to be sitting with and speaking to so easily. He did not know how to reply to it. His tongue was suddenly thick and ungainly in his mouth, as leaden as a millstone.  
  
“Your father,” he had to swallow over the words, ill as they were to speak. “ . . . he would not wish you here.” The truth was a pain of its own, remembering Turgon trailing behind Fingon as a child, awe in his eyes as he so easily loved what his brother loved. Now, to remember the disgust in his eyes on Alqualondë's shores, and the barely veiled hatred in his eyes now . . .  
  
_His hate stems from his sorrow, and yet, would you be any different in his stead? . . . would you bear it half so gracefully, even?_ The truth of his thoughts was a burden of its own, and Maedhros swallowed against them.  
  
“Here with you, or here on the lakeshore?” Idril asked cheekily. Her eyes twinkled, and her voice was so much like _Elenwë's_ warm, Vanyarin lilt that he had to fight the urge to close his eyes against it. _Elenwë_ , who had been such a quiet strength and balm of wisdom upon the wounds of Finwë's house – so much so that even his father had praised her for the blessing she was . . . before the Silmarils, that was . . . before his madness and the final, downward spiral of his mind. In the end, Fëanor had seen nothing and no one, and no wisdom could touch the decisions of his heart – neither that of his wife or children, nor even the grace of the Valar above.  
  
“You know what it is I say,” he replied in a hard voice, but Idril was maddeningly unabashed at his words.  
  
“Yes, I do,” she responded simply. “But I would not leave you to trip all the way back to Grandfather's camp. The rocks along the shore can be perilous, and my uncle would be cross indeed if a bad fall ruined your healers' fine work.”  
  
A long moment passed. He stared at her as if trying to weigh her meaning, her sincerity. Had the pains of the father also been the pains of the daughter, he would not have faulted her. Rather, he would _understand_. But she instead sat before him, patient and waiting, and he did not know how to reply to her.  
  
“For Fingon, then,” at long last, Maedhros forced the words from his mouth.  
  
“For Fingon,” Idril agreed easily. She leaned over, and he submitted to the indignity of being aided with something as simple as tying shoelaces - as if _he_ were the child, when last he had seen Idril, she was barely taller than his waist. Yet, he swallowed, and pushed the thought away.  
  
With a deft hand, she showed him how to balance the laces between finger and thumb, while using the wrist of her opposite hand to hold them still and complete the loop – even saying that he could use his teeth to pull them tight when need be. He paid attention with the same focus he once knew as a child at his father's side, determined to duplicate the skill as easily as she.  
  
Until, he could not help but ask: “How is it that you came by this talent?”  
  
She was silent for a long moment; a silence that he recognized from himself when he did not wish to give voice to a thought weighing upon his mind. Quickly, he regretted his asking.  
  
“I fell on the Helcaraxë,” she nonetheless answered, clearly choosing her words carefully. “There was a shelf of ice with unsure footing, and I slipped when the whole side gave way. I gashed my arm from here, to here,” she gestured from her elbow to shoulder, where he could even now see a faint, silvery mark reaching out to touch the skin of her collarbone. “The fall knocked my shoulder from its place, and I had not the use of a few broken fingers for a month or so. I did not wish to be a burden on others, who had their own burdens to bear, this being not long after my mother . . . after the Ice took her,” she had to try twice to find her words, and when she finished there was a false sort of cheer to her voice. “And so, I taught myself how to do this.”  
  
He was silent in reply to her words, having nothing he could say that would heal the wound upon her spirit. Rather, he then felt his own guilt as a crushing weight, thinking only that if he had been that much stronger . . . if he had been that much less a coward, that much more noble of heart . . . if he had, perhaps then _none_ of this would have happened. Many good people may not have lost their lives, while he . . .  
  
Could Angband too have been avoided, if he had forsworn his father the way he perhaps should have? Could doing so have erased his own scars? The scars Fingon bore? The scars his brother carried from the burden of their grandfather's crown and from the guilt inspired by their Oath? He did not know, and that question was one that haunted him more so than any other.  
  
“It made my father smile when my knots were crooked and ungainly,” she continued, her voice soft with a true emotion. “I would have done anything to make him smile when all was cold and never-ending around us.”  
  
His next breath was drawn deep from his lungs. Words loitered on the tip of his tongue, but he could not give them a voice. Gracefully, she did not allow him the chance to do so, instead inclining her head and bidding him: “Now, you try,” in a voice that was as soft as the veiled dawn above them.  
  
He'd already known the fingers of his remaining hand to be stiff and ungainly – and they were no different for this task. His left hand was not his dominant hand, and the muscles and tendons of that arm were still not as strong as they should be after years of malnourishment and inactivity. He struggled where Idril had made such deft work look easy, and at last he sighed, flinging the laces away with an overwhelmed breath.  
  
Idril watched him, not interfering until he at last gave in defeat.  
  
“Here,” she tried once more, leaning over to help him, and then -  
  
\- she did nothing more than place a hand upon his shoulder for balance, but he sucked in a deep breath as if struck when she pressed the barest amount of her weight down (remembering a guantleted hand exactly where hers was, _pushing_ , forcing him to bow, to _kneel_ ; laughing as chains were pulled tight, before - )  
  
Out of reflex, his body expected pain, and he drew into himself in answer, making the smallest target possible. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, animal-like and pained, before shoving her back with a motion that even Angband had taken from him at the end. But he would no longer accept it, and so meekly _endure_ -  
  
\- yet, as soon as that flame rose within him, unbanked and fierce, it cooled upon realizing that he was now far from the North, and the girl he'd harmed had wanted nothing more than to help him.  
  
He sucked in a hiss of breath, and clenched his eyes shut, trying to tell _here_ from _there_ , separating the _now_ from _then_ as the healers had been working with him to do. Yet, doing so was a long battle, and by the time he called himself back to order, Idril had already recovered from where she fell backwards from his blow. She was looking upon him with such concern in her eyes – her eyes so much like Turgon's eyes, like _Fingon's_ eyes, that the resemblance then _hurt_.  
  
“You should leave,” Maedhros ground out in a low voice, still pressing the heel of his remaining palm to his brow. “I fear that I am not fit for company . . . and I . . . I apologize, I did not mean to hurt you.”  
  
“The fault was not yours,” she said, her voice still and level – for which he was grateful. He did not think that he would be able to handle pity in her voice, as if she were trying to sooth a lame animal. “I did not think before acting, and for that I apologize.”  
  
He drew in a deep breath, and looked at her through lowered lids. “There is no right way of behaving around me, I fear,” he said, hating the bitterness in his voice as he spoke. “And I . . .” the throbbing in his head seemed to pick up in intensity, and he could not find his words.  
  
“You are not the only one who cannot sleep for fear of dreams, of memories; for why else did I find you walking this shore so early?” she whispered. “Nor are you the first to react as such to a hand extended in friendship; we had many such cases on the Ice. So quickly do you expect to cast yourself in your former mold that you fail to see just how far you have come. Instead, you see only how far you think you must go.”  
  
In her words there was another blow. He winced, wishing that she could see that he could not handle her kindness. He could not bear it; a weight as it was to match both his memories of Angband and the failings of his body. He needed her to leave, and let him be, more so than he had yet wanted anything since Fingon had rescued him from Thangorodrim.  
  
Yet, even as his thoughts rose to overwhelm him – to smother him - a warm, blue light then reached out to seemingly hold him steady. It filled his spirit, sinking into the shatter-lines marring his fëa in the same way the Sindarin healers had to repair that which had been gouged in and damaged about his soul. It took him a moment to realize that that light was Idril's spirit, reaching out for his own, and it took him an even longer moment to remember years ago – a lifetime ago, now – when Fingon had first mentioned the possibility of his niece bearing the Healer's gift. It was a gift little needed, and little used, in the glory of golden Aman, but the fact remained that Elenwë had looked with the eyes of the Vanyar and saw the light of Estë about her daughter. It was a light that Maedhros leaned into now, letting it fill him as something living, warming the cold places of his soul as no fire could; filling in his shadowed spirit with light, brightening the blight and soothing that which was scabbed and raw to the touch.  
  
“Where does your kindness stem from?” he finally forced the words out. “My family . . . what we did . . . Your _mother_ . . .” his voice was a choked hiccup of sound. He could not complete his thought, he could not yet give it a voice, even to the softness of the morning and the gentle light in Idril's eyes.  
  
He was leaning, swaying unsteadily, even while seated, and Idril placed an easy hand on his back. She coaxed him to lean against her shoulder when his own body failed him, refusing to stay upright.  
  
“Eternity is a long time to serve such a sentence for a crime; especially a crime that you know regret for, and repent so dearly from. And you, more so than most, have paid the price for those long ago days,” the girl touched his arm, his shoulders, taking liberties that he could not yet allow his own brothers, or even Fingon, as she traced the lines of old hurts with gentle hands. Her fingers were soft as she ran them through the shorn ends of his hair. “It is not mine to give for the whole, neither am I wholly in the right to deserve such apologies. But, I forgive you, Maitimo Nelyafinwë. I forgive you, just as my mother would have forgiven you; and just as my grandfather's people shall forgive once they too heal as you try to heal. Do not lose hope, for in despair is a true victory for the Shadow, and you are stronger than it by far.”  
  
It took him a long moment to realize that he was crying into her shoulder, wetting the dark green of her cloak as he did so. He tried to pull back, but found himself weak in that moment, unable to move, and unwilling to do so, at that. Her words were the barest balm upon a great wound, and he could not yet count himself worthy of them. He could not yet accept them. And yet, someday . . .  
  
He took in a deep breath as he thought about _eternity_ and _time_ , and this time, when he stared down that road, he forced himself not to see the long shape of that path . . . but its end.  
  
He exhaled, and felt then as if he could breathe.  
  
When his shuddering subsided and his mind at last calmed, he felt as her spirit drew back again. She smiled, and held the dawn in her eyes as she looked on him in approval.  
  
“Now, let's get you back before it is realized that you are gone,” after his laces were at last tied, Idril helped him to his feet, and it did not feel as an ignominy to accept her aid in walking. Instead it was as a shared strength between them, keeping him upright. “My uncle is quite the mother hen, you know, and he shall be worried by now.”  
  
Maedhros simply made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, and let her help him on.


	70. "but for pale persistence"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros & Elrond || Prompt: _Address_ , Free-write
> 
> Originally, this was supposed to go with the last post before it became too long to double up. This also fits into my Maglor/Maedhros/Elrond/Elros 'verse after chapters 47, 27, 32, and before chapters 48 and 51. What can I say? My muse never tires of this imperfect, heartbreakingly lovely family. :)

Centuries had passed, yet there were still nights when he woke up gasping.  
  
It was a routine he now knew well: inhaling, slowly and deeply, until his breath calmed; clearing his mind as if stretching a muscle, one by one replacing memories of smoke and blood with the gentle roll of the ocean and the soft hum of the night around him. When Maedhros at last opened his eyes, it was to see the moon staring down at him through the open roof above him. The stars were out in full that night, their light made all the brighter for the fire on the flagstones having faded to mere embers hours ago. Somewhere in the rafters of the ruined keep they camped in, an owl cried, and he felt the sound echo in his chest.  
  
Slowly, he exhaled, and found that he was still cradling the stub of his wrist in his opposite hand, even after the dream - the memory - had passed. The phantom aches where once a palm and fingers had been were intense that night, such as he had not endured in years. He frowned, wishing to unfurl and close fingers that were no longer there as his mind and body fed each other contradictory signals, struggling to work together once more.  
  
Maedhros laid back down, ignoring his discomfort, and simply closed his eyes to his memories. He no longer refused sleep for the sake of dreams, even when most nights only rewarded him with a dull haze of relief from the weight of his waking hours. Yet, there was naught to be done for that burden, and so, he took what rest he could.  
  
He was not sure how long his eyes were closed before he heard a soft step scrape against the stone. Out of reflex, he reached for the dagger hidden underneath his pillow. Yet, that was a reflex that had slowed since their taking children into their care – children who woke up for black dreams and other such ills in the night, even though they were now old enough that those incidents were few and far between.  
  
Sure enough, he opened his eyes to see one of the twins already sitting beside him, his back to the last embers of the fire. He at first thought to see Elros, but saw his mistake and amended his thoughts. Elrond was much the same as he in the night - sleeping shallowly in reply to the visions running unchecked in the dark (a thought he pushed away, for the Sight grew as the child grew, and there were none amongst their ranks who could guide him in the mental arts). In stark contrast, Elros slept as if he had not a care in the world; deeply and with the bright dreams of youth, so much so that Maedhros envied him.  
  
“You may go back to sleep, child,” he did not bother asking why Elrond was afoot in that hour. There were nights when his abilities were as a wound rubbed raw, and any sort of psychic distress from those in their following would disturb him from his sleep. This was not the first time Maedhros had unwittingly summoned him. “I shall bother you no more this night.”  
  
Rather than obeying him outright, Elrond was silent for a long moment. Maedhros could feel the weight of his gaze as the youth regarded him. “Was it Thangorodrim again?” he asked.  
  
Maedhros inhaled, and let his breath out slow. “It makes no difference,” he answered. His voice was cold, welcoming no further conversation on the matter.  
  
Yet, Elros was not the only stubborn soul betwixt the pair, and he could feel as Elrond's gaze narrowed thoughtfully. Pointedly, Maedhros closed his own eyes - hoping that the other would take the hint and leave him be.  
  
Yet, such wishing was for naught.  
  
“I can feel it too,” Elrond spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. Maedhros cracked one eye open, and saw where Elrond was holding his right hand in his left, unconsciously soothing the unmarred flesh about his wrist. “Its absence pains you this night, and I . . . I think that I may be able to help.” He felt a flash of determination from the youth – for he gleaned from others as much as he unconsciously shared with other minds in return. It was something he long worked to contain, and controlled as best he could.  
  
“You cannot regrow limbs,” Maedhros frowned. “Even if you could, Healers more versed in their arts than you have aided me over the centuries. It has all been for naught.”  
  
“Yes, it is _said_ to be an impossibility,” Elrond agreed, a note of stubbornness nonetheless entering his voice. “Yet, I have been working with Maglor. He has shared the few Songs of healing he can, and I think that I have figured out a way to - ”  
  
“ - Elrond,” Maedhros softened his voice, even as he interrupted him. He could not quite hide the affection he felt for the child in that moment, no matter how stolen such a thing was - a thief's treasure, ill-gained and jealously cherished. “I thank you for wishing to try. But it is a futility; one I have resigned myself to since the Sun was still young in the sky. Go back to sleep, and say no more of it.”  
  
Elrond worked his jaw as if he wished to say more. But he bowed his head in acceptance - a token acceptance, however, as he said, “Not tonight, then.” Even so, he was slow to rise to his feet. Strangely, Maedhros felt a wave of nervousness from him, a tide of hesitance and apprehension, before it was pushed aside with a firm hand. Strangely, he found himself holding his breath, sharing the poised sense of waiting, feeling as if he lingered before a precipice, dark and deep.  
  
“Goodnight, then,” Elrond at last whispered, his voice sounding very small in the night. “ . . . Adar.”  
  
As if someone put a flame to his skin, Maedhros was then fully awake. He sat upright, ignoring the now pulsing pressure in his wrist as he regarded the youth with no small amount of surprise. He worked his jaw, but no sound came from his mouth. A twisting, rolling sort of discomfort pierced through him, all stemming from the patient, _hopeful_ expression he found awaiting him.  
  
“Do not,” Maedhros forced the words from his tongue, not quite knowing how to give voice to just how terribly _wrong_ such a thing was to say. An awful weight settled upon him, and he found it hard to breathe. “You _must_ not -”  
  
“ - yet, you have been to us,” Elrond's voice was measured, standing as a boulder in the current of Maedhros' suddenly turbulent emotions. "You and Maglor both."  
  
“I am _not_ your father,” Maedhros nonetheless snapped, trying to regain a hold on the suddenly spinning shape of his emotions – feeling guilt and regret and such a simple, undeserved _joy_ in reply to his words. That, in particular, he forced down with a nearly savage sort of determination.  
  
“No,” Elrond agreed, fighting to keep his voice steady, “my sire is far away, and never coming back to these shores. It is true.”  
  
“And whose fault is that?” Maedhros gave his words quickly, without thinking. “Do you so quickly forget Sirion, child?"  
  
“I do not forget,” Elrond's voice was cold in reply, impressively filling with a steel that Maedhros could not tell for Finwë or Elwë within his blood. “I cannot _ever_ forget.”  
  
“If you cannot forget, then you are slow to _understand_ ,” Maedhros returned. He could feel his temper leaping from his desperation as a flame rising from kindle, and he felt the reflexive cast of Elrond's spirit pulse in reply. His presence was already a massively blue thing, like the slow roll of the ocean, soothing and endless, and Maedhros bit the inside of his lip in answer, unwilling to be swayed by Estë's presence in the young soul before him.  
  
The child wished to sooth, to _aid_. And so Maedhros let him slip further into his mind to see:  
  
Let him see that first, horrible day at Alqualondë – only for that sin, so long repented from, to be repeated at Doriath and again at Sirion. He let him see blood on the sand, blood on the snow, blood on the white stone of Elwing's tower – Maedhros could see it all when he all but closed his eyes. Yet, it was still not enough, not nearly enough to appease the consuming demon that even now rested alongside his bones, just _waiting_ to be summoned once more. His Oath was an uncaring master, hungry and consuming and ever _demanding_ to be sated; this he let the child see, this he let the child _feel_.  
  
Elrond's presence flinched, but he held on through the maelstrom of memories and ill deeds, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes and _understand_. So Maedhros dug in deeper, letting him see gentle Idril as she helped him with something as simple as boot laces, only to put her people to the sword and hold her grandchildren ransom for something as trifle as a _gem_ , no matter how hallowed its name. She forgave him, _forgave_ him, and he, in return . . .  
  
 _Your gift comes from your grandmother as much as it comes from Lúthien's might in your blood_ , Maedhros let him feel the memory he held of Idril's awesome blue presence - a presence so much like the child's own, _and yet I turned on her_ _kindness_ _as a rabid dog_ _strains against_ _a leash. Someday, if need be, I would do the same to you. Do you not see? I serve but one thing in life, and for serving this one thing . . ._  
  
 _. . . I deserve nothing else, nothing as good or fair or pure as . . ._ he could not finish the thought, even as it rolled up from the depths of his spirit. He swallowed, and tasted bile rising in his throat, for his memories were a blade that cut two ways, and the wounds they left were deep.  
  
 _What are you trying to prove_ _to me_ _?_ even so, Elrond held on determinedly, closing his eyes to the Kinslayings and instead seeing what Maedhros would rather not think on himself. _Who do you think to convince? Yourself, or me?_  
  
For every memory of blood, the child raised him one higher – reminding him of the tender hand he had used to help his brothers take their first step, learn their letters, and master their ponies and training swords . . . Elrond searched, and turned his own recollections on him, showing him a glimpse of his strong voice in Finwë's court, and his unwavering loyalty to his people as they conducted their siege of Angband and stood up to Morgoth's shadow as even the Valar themselves refused to do. Determinedly, Elrond dug even deeper, and turned up old, tender memories: reminding him of how he'd read to his mother's stomach while she carried Maglor, and showing him how he'd once balanced the newborn Ambarussa in his arms and fed them from a bottle when Nerdanel was too weak and Fëanor too unwilling to acknowledge the fractured lines of his family. Maedhros looked on the memory, and found the tiny, mirrored gazes so much like the stolen children before him that sometimes he thought . . .  
  
. . . but no. They were dead now, and that too was _his_ fault, _his_ burden to carry. He could not -  
  
 _\- No_ , Elrond's voice was as storm-wind within his mind. _Do not look there, but_ :  
  
 _It started here_ , the boy found with uncanny perception, and Maedhros was filled with a thousand memories: of Fingon laughing, and Fingon looping an arm about his shoulders, and Fingon shielding his ravaged body from the wind and cold as the Eagle bore them further and further away from Thangorodrim . . .  
  
 _You are stronger than a few_ _ill_ _words of tongue_ , Fingon had always fiercely believed, but his Oath had ruined their chances against Morgoth in that all-out desperate strike upon the North. His Oath had Thingol refusing to ally with them, and the Sindar, perhaps, would have turned the tide of the battle for the better. Even worse, his Oath made him blind to trickery and deception with his desperation to see Angband destroyed and Morgoth _kneeling_ before them, thus allowing them to take the crown from his brow and return what had been stolen.  
  
 _This battle was one you truly believed in, the true_ _vow of your soul_ _and the legacy that should have been yours to leave behind_ , Elrond forced him to see. _But, when Fingon fell – leaving such an awful, gaping chasm behind . . ._ _When your armies broke due to betrayal, and Morgoth smashed your forces so thoroughly that there is no longer any strength amongst the Eldar left to defy him . . ._  
  
. . . y _ou did not care about anything after that_ , the boy whispered as he picked through his thoughts. _All you had was your Oath . . ._ _there was nothing left for you to turn to . . ._  
  
 _All_ _that_ _you are,_ _and all that you do,_ _is_ _now for_ _this one thing_ , Fëanor had whispered, his voice terrible and dark and _beautiful_ as the ships burned on the horizon behind him. _You are nothing more than this: but to_ _fulfill_ _that which you swore. Now, hold your head_ _high_ _up and look forward. Such_ _craven weakness_ _is through no blood of mine._  
  
But, again, Elrond countered him. The boy illuminated his memories, and Maedhros was forced to see his father smiling at him, laughing as he picked him up and spun him about, and in Fëanor's laughter there was a greater light than that of the Trees to his child's mind. It had been so long . . . so long . . . if asked now, Maedhros would say that his father never laughed. And it was true, he had not in the end. But then . . . _before_ . . .  
  
 _I am proud of you, my son,_ Fëanor whispered, but those words were a trick of his dreams, wished for to the point of his believing they happened. They were never spoken outright, and Maedhros made a fist of his one hand, wishing -  
  
\- and then, he saw where Elrond saw how he viewed the twins: how they were as a balm on the wound of his days, stitching together the broken pieces his life had shattered into. He had not smiled since Fingon smiled, he had not laughed since his fallen brothers had laughed, and now . . . they were a light returned to him, a light he did not deserve underneath the pall of his deeds and the shadow of his Oath. The Valar were cruel to see that the children loved as he loved, for he did not deserve . . . _they_ did not deserve . . .  
  
 _You love us as sons_ , Elrond stated with a calm, assured finality, the blue weight of his spirit smothering any argument he could think to make, any memory he could think to summon. _You cannot lie to yourself, and you cannot lie to me. Is it so strange to see that love returned, when, for all of your deeds, you have loved and cared for us more than the_ _y_ _who brought us into this world? No . . . it is not so strange to me._  
  
No.  
  
No.  
  
 _No_.  
  
“Stop it,” Maedhros ordered aloud, his voice a strained hiss of sound. “ _Stop it_.” Using a little-used muscle in his psyche, he heaved the Perelda from his mind as he had not needed to do so since Morgoth himself combed through his memories for that which he could use as a blow, as a _wound_. But Elrond was far from the Dark Vala, and he went easily when pushed, blinking as he returned to his own mind, and holding a hand to his temple as if pained from the separation of their thoughts.  
  
And still, Elrond looked up at him with such a light in the pale grey of his eyes – eyes that were shaped as Idril's eyes . . . just as they were Turgon's and _Fingon's_ before her. Maedhros winced, and drew in a breath, as if steeling himself against a blow.  
  
“You can say what you like, throw whatever black memory at me you may,” Elrond said with a slow, dreadful certainty. “But it changes nothing.”  
  
Father . . . _father,_ Maedhros could still hear the endearment as clearly as if Elrond had said so a hundred times. In the back of his mind, a wry thought admitted that he'd always expected Elros to be the first to address him as such. He closed his eyes, thinking of the adoration that was already as plain as the day was bright in the younger child's gaze. His breath was then as a blade, and he could not -  
  
\- without sparing another word, he rose to his feet and stormed from the room. Blessedly, Elrond did not follow him.  
  
Maedhros walked without his feet truly knowing where it was he went, but when he approached his brother's bedroll – where he had fallen asleep in the ruined library of the once great keep – he toed Maglor's sleeping form with perhaps more force than he meant to.  
  
“We are changing course,” he did not wait for his brother to fully rouse himself before speaking. Blearily, Maglor rubbed at his eyes before turning a concerned look on him.  
  
Maedhros ignored the question in his gaze. “We are turning south, where we can make the crossing to Balar.”  
  
“ . . . Balar?” Maglor repeated, somewhat dumbly. “Do you mean – the children?” His speech was half-formed, his syllables halting as he gathered his thoughts. Maedhros felt his instinctive denial and fierce refusal to do so hit him like a war-hammer before Maglor checked his emotions.  
  
“Yes,” Maedhros returned harshly. “Yes, I mean to return them to their kin.”  
  
Fully awake now, Maglor frowned, his storm-grey eyes alight. “Brother, slow down and speak reasonably - ”  
  
“ - Eärendil is forever gone, and our father's Silmaril is lost with him,” Maedhros threw the truth out in harsh, clipped syllables, feeling his Oath shudder against the words even as he spoke them – demanding that he bring down the very _heavens_ themselves if that was what was needed to fulfill his accursed vow of tongue. “He is never coming back, not even for the sons he left behind. I can acknowledge that truth; and now, I will no longer have children running about underfoot if I can help it.”  
  
His brother was silent in reply. Since the rise of Eärendil's star, Maglor had argued the merits of returning the twins to Gil-galad's keeping – for their own well-being and the sake of their futures to come. Yet, now that the moment was before him, he was oddly silent. He hesitated. Maedhros could feel a ghost of his pain for the parting to come as if it was his own. He tried to swallow the emotion away, but the taste it left behind was bitter.  
  
“The boy . . . he called me father,” Maedhros gave on the faintest whisper of a voice. He sat down next to Maglor when it became apparent that his legs no longer wished to support his weight. “He called me _father_ , and I . . . I cannot . . . I do not deserve . . . _they_ deserve more. They always have.”  
  
A long moment passed before Maedhros felt his brother's hand rest upon his shoulder. Once, Maglor squeezed, and argued no more.  
  
“Then,” Maglor simply inclined his head in reply, resignation heavy in his voice. “South we shall go.”


	71. "where stirs a quiet pain"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn/Galadriel || Prompt: _Snowfall_
> 
> Because it is time to pick the mood up a little bit, and early-days Celeborn and Galadriel seemed just the way to do that . . . As always, I thank you all for reading, and hope that you enjoy. :)

**Snowfall**  
  
Winter was a quiet haze upon the world around them; frosting the forest with silver and blurring her sight with soft, lazy blotches of white.  
  
Galadriel sighed, and watched as her breath stained the air before her. Her boots made soft crushing noises over the freshly fallen snow, even as she closed her gloved hands about the fur lining of her cloak. She held one palm within the other, pressing the thumb of her right hand into the palm of her left, knowing, rather than feeling, where a long, ugly line of white marred the skin there. She did not feel cold, but she nonetheless shivered, feeling as if the winter looked down on her with less than kind eyes.  
  
At her side, Celeborn did not shy away from the cold as she did. Instead, he tilted his face upwards towards the falling snow, and closed his eyes in appreciation of its caress. His hands were gloveless and held open before him, attempting to catch the fat snowflakes on his bare palms. For a moment, she half expected him to tilt his head back and try to catch them upon his tongue – as Lúthien had when they first left the stone halls of Menegroth behind, she being as delighted as her kinsman was to walk underneath the barren trees once more.  
  
They were now alone in the forest. Thranduil and Lúthien had abandoned them soon after departing – the elder complaining about the younger's unfortunate habit of hiding behind trees with snowballs in hand, and this time resolving to ambush the princess first when he noticed her missing. He'd pulled Aegnor into his intrigue, his firm insistence leaving her brother no option but to leave her alone with her suitor.  
  
It was terribly transparent of their Sindarin friends, and such actions would have brought a fond smile to Galadriel's face under normal circumstances. But, now . . .  
  
She simply pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders, and stared at the soft hush of the winter as if it was a foe, a hunting thing waiting to strike.  
  
A step ahead of her, Celeborn noticed he'd outpaced her. He slowed, and she glanced at the bright glimmer in his eyes and the healthy flush to his cheeks, for a moment quite taken by the way the silver of his hair merged with the snowfall around him. She stared when a few snowflakes landed on the tips of his long eyelashes, quite content in their place before melting. He wiped a distracted hand at his eyes, and she watched him, all the while silent.  
  
“You do not care for the snow,” Celeborn at last stated, rather than questioning.  
  
“The cold season has its purpose,” Galadriel gave in reply, but even she could hear how stiff the words were from her mouth. She frowned, unsure if she was more put out by her inability to make an iron fist about her emotions, or by the deceivingly gentle lull of the snow around them. “I acknowledge its place, and accept that I must endure it until the spring comes once more.”  
  
Celeborn was silent in reply. He raised a brow as he normally would before teasing her about a particularly _Noldorin_ trait she bore, before swallowing his words away. He frowned, the expression oddly gentle upon his face.  
  
Instead of teasing, he spoke to the heart of the matter with the precision of an arrow finding its mark. “We know that Fingolfin's host crossed the Helcaraxë to reach this land. I . . . I take it that the crossing was not pleasant.” Again, his words were a statement, rather than a question.  
  
She did not answer. Instead, she turned from him, and continued down the snow-covered path. After a moment, he followed. She could feel his concern as a warmth against her consciousness, lingering as a thaw upon ice, but she kept herself carefully indifferent. She could not . . . she _would not_ share more about the days following the Darkening than she already had, not even with _him_ . . . not now, not _yet_.  
  
Yet, her cheeks stung from the bite of the cold, and the ice underfoot seemed to bring forth every memory she would rather lock away and never examine again. As if moments had passed, rather than years, she remembered the hunger gnawing at her belly and the fierce sting of the cold through the layers cocooning her body; so sharp and unforgiving was the weather that there were those of their host who froze in their step, never to walk again. There was no warmth to be found on the Helcaraxë, no mercy, and the number of those who fell to the cruelty of the frozen sea and the untrustworthiness of the glacial planes . . . she had stopped counting, her mind balking before the number as a shield to her thoughts.  
  
She frowned, even now remembering bits and pieces of those days; remembering Finrod trying to be a balm to Turgon when his wife fell, she going as far to welcome Idril to sleep by her own fire at night so that she did not have to endure her father's grief at so tender an age. Those nights spent encouraging the small, bright gift the child had burning like a flame at the core of her had been but bare distractions, and most nights ended with Idril shivering against her as she hummed into her hair for as long as her raw vocal cords would allow her to. She remembered cross words traded with Fingon as she took out her frustration for a foe far beyond her reach where her anger was not truly warranted – she recognizing the lack of gold in his hair only later, but refusing to apologize, not even when he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder the next day, his eyes weighed down by the burden of betrayal and grief, his in a way more poignant than even her own. She remembered the similar weight on her own brother's shoulders as he led Finarfin's people in their father's stead, cursing Fëanor and the Valar by turns with every step as she let her rage and her righteous anger carry her on and on and _on_. . .  
  
. . . there were some days when she still bore memory of the cold. For so long, she had been certain that she would never be warm again, and her mind did not yet trust the spring she'd found in Endórë.  
  
But now the winter was soft, and the concern in his eyes – in his _spirit_ , growing all the more familiar to her as the days drew on – was a warmth of its own. She bit her lip in a habit she had long thought to have done away with, and fought the urge she had to close her eyes as Celeborn drew even with her and gently drew her to stand still. There was no pressure against her mind, and there was no coaxing in the way he cradled her face in his hands and leaned down to touch his brow to hers. His hands were chilled from the winter air, and she shivered.  
  
“I wish that you would tell me of that which weighs upon you,” he spoke to the wall that existed, tall and unmovable, in her mind. When he whispered, she breathed in his words. “Would that I could help you, even in the least of ways.”  
  
She leaned against him, her body loose with contentment; no matter that her bones were tight in wariness for the cold, no matter that she _remembered_ , and for remembering . . .  
  
Slowly, gingerly, Galadriel moved to undo the glove of her left hand, exposing the ugly scar there for his view. The sight was not new to him, but neither had he ever asked as to the scar's origin, trusting her without words to tell him when she was ready to do so.  
  
For a moment, she cradled her bare palm within her gloved hand before offering the old wound to him. He moved his hands away from her face, understanding her offering as he took her hand within his own. His touch was cold, but this time she did not feel a chill.  
  
“There were many perils in crossing the Helcaraxë, and the Ice took more than this from many,” she whispered. “Some . . .” she remembered Elenwë and the hundreds like her, and for a moment she felt her breath as a pain in her lungs.  
  
“I was fortunate,” she whispered, “but I was not viewed as such. Before our departure from Aman, there was a quarrel between my father's kin and my mother's kin,” gingerly, as if her words were uneasy footing upon thin ice, she whispered, fearing a plunge at any moment. “For my stance in that quarrel, my father's kin were uneasy with me, and there were none of my mother's kin I had defended there to support me – and even they were . . . disapproving of the way I shielded their interests before I left the West behind. The days were not easy; more so than the elements was the grief sundering my people, the burden of leadership on my brother's shoulders – and my own, as I served by his side . . . They are days I do not recall with any sort of fondness, and this . . .” she looked again at the winter-touched forest, soft and deceptively beautiful, “reminds me of that which I would rather forget.”  
  
Celeborn listened, carefully hearing all that she did and did not say before exhaling. He said no words in comfort where none could truly be spoken, instead rubbing a slow, careful thumb about the scar marring her palm until the skin there warmed from his touch. She stood very still, feeling the warmth from his body as if it was a stolen thing, knowing that someday she would have to tell him all, and on that day . . .  
  
. . . he may not look on her as fondly as he did now. She inhaled, feeling her lungs fill on just how _essential_ he had become to her being; standing as a strength for her when she'd thought herself to be so strong, and now . . .  
  
He leaned down to touch his brow to hers again. He did not speak, but she felt his presence touch her spirit, turning warm and soothing, not knowing the specifics of her hurt, but knowing that she _hurt_ , and endeavoring to sooth over those raw pieces of her with a balm of his own. He did not press to look past the shields she had erected – such a thing was a capitol offense, even between a couple bound and wed – but instead allowed her to see into his own mind. He let her feel his connection with the trees; understanding how they slept in the winter, the snow settling upon them as a warmth, keeping them safe in the cold until the spring could come anew. The winter was not harsh, the winter was not death, but rather _rest_ and _healing_ so that the warmth of the seasons to come could be properly enjoyed – and fruitfully yielding in return.  
  
There was a softness, a _magic_ in the forest during the winter, this he tried to share with her, replacing her memories of the Helcaraxë with -  
  
Just as she found herself relaxing – understanding, just barely, what he tried to show her – she felt a shocking sensation of _cold_ strike her back, breaking through the warmth of her cloak and the thick layers she wore underneath. Snow exploded over her shoulders and caught in her hair, and she stiffened in surprise before hearing a musical peal of laughter from the cover of the trees.  
  
Blinking, affronted, Galadriel turned to see Lúthien's unapologetic face greet her. The princess' cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her eyes were dancing merrily – all but _daring_ her to respond in kind. Yet, Galadriel did not have to avenge herself when Thranduil and Aegnor came up behind her with snowballs of their own in hand. Nonplussed, Lúthien turned to defend herself with a rather deadly aim - this Galadriel delighted to see when Aegnor took a face-full of snow with a yelp, shaking off the blow in order to return a salvo of his own – a barrage of snowballs that Lúthien only laughed all the more so for enduring.  
  
Galadriel could not help it, she too smiled in reply. Softly she _laughed_ , and found an unexpected flare of delight warm the cold in her bones and sooth the frost in her memories. She smiled, and found the expression slow to fade - even when she found that smile interrupted by Aegnor's taking offense enough from her amusement to turn a snowball that was meant for Lúthien towards _her_. She was hit again, this time in the shoulder as snow sprayed up to decorate her face in a delicate frosting of fluffy white crystals.  
  
This time, it was Celeborn who gave a delighted chuckle at her expense, laughing openly at the rather silly image she must have presented. Galadriel felt her eyes narrow, the look turning deadly as she knelt down to scoop up a handful of snow – Celeborn instantly understanding her intentions and wisely backing away from her with his hands held up in supplication.  
  
But she had no mercy as she reached up to smear the snow on top of his head. The snow fell down into his face and plopped onto his shoulders – which she had no time to observe in satisfaction before he grabbed her wrist and pushed her into a waist-high snowbank. She twisted, and managed to pull him down with her - but, before she could shove more snow into his face, he took the easiest option he had for his defense: namely, leaning down to kiss her before her blow could make contact.  
  
Galadriel hesitated a moment before returning his kiss, unable to hold onto her ire as she instead melted against him like the thaw to come – accepting his truce, and pulling him down closer to her. The snow was cold as it cradled her body, and her cloak was _quite_ soaked at this point, but she felt only warmth fill her as the weight of his body settled pleasantly atop her own. Feeling a flush spread across her skin, she wound her left hand through his hair to hold him closer to her, placing the scarred flat of her palm against his neck as she did so. She inhaled with the winter, and this time breathed out, feeling only contentment fill her as -  
  
\- another shower of white exploded over Celeborn's shoulders as Aegnor's snowball struck her suitor with more force than was strictly necessary. She did not catch Aegnor's words, but she did hear Thranduil say something about _prudish Noldorin sensibilities_ before both he and Lúthien turned on Aegnor, thus allowing them a moment unmolested as they found a way to their feet once more.  
  
She allowed Celeborn to help her up, but she was not quick to leave his side as she leaned her head against his shoulder, sharing his warmth as a chill bit through her from her snow-covered clothes. Yet, even that could not chase the smile from her face as he reached down to take her hand in his own, his thumb once again finding her scar and softly caressing. His spirit was full against hers, warm and content – as much for the happiness in her own spirit as it was for her finally trusting him with but a fraction of her story.  
  
And, so: “You do help me, more than you know,” she settled for whispering, addressing his words from earlier. It was not yet enough, it was not _everything_ as he wanted, but it was a beginning, and he was patient . . . Indeed, his patience was one of the things she was growing to love about him.  
  
Perhaps it was her words, perhaps it was the last thought he gleaned from her mind, but he leaned down to kiss the ridged skin marring her palm before smiling softly at her. In his expression was all the warmth the winter lacked, and Galadriel felt herself turn towards it as the trees did to the promise of spring.  
  
Beyond them, Aegnor was loudly protesting his Sindarin assailants, fending off their dual attack as best he could. Celeborn gave a sharp grin, full of teeth, in reply. “Should we assist your brother?” he asked of her.  
  
Galadriel pretended to consider for a long moment, before winding her arm through his own. “I think not,” she at last answered, throwing her head up haughtily in reply. She turned on the path, tugging Celeborn with her, feeling amusement fill her all the more so as Aegnor protested behind them, asking for their aid even as they left him behind.  
  
She simply held her head up high, and held on to Celeborn more tightly than before. And barely, just barely, she smiled as the winter filled her.


	72. "but for we who remain"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeborn/Galadriel & Elwing & Eärendil || Prompt: _Consolation_
> 
> This ficlet picks up where the last one left off, in a way . . . This can also fit into my Gondolin arc with chapters 11 and 13, and with my Eärendil/Elwing arc in chapters 15 and 46, which leads into my massive Third Kinslaying arc . . . really, all of these are all related, so just enjoy what you may. ;)

**Consolation**    
  
The girl glowered at the snow covered dune as if it were a foe; an evil to be stared down and overcome through the force of her eyes alone.  
  
Teetering between wry bemusement and sad resignation, Galadriel watched her ward with a weary turn to her mouth. Elwing had always been a quiet child, but quick to laughter and dancing when so moved. Sadly, the last few months had seen but terribly little of each, and while a part of her knew that there would be laughter again in the child's future, there was a whisper of knowing within her that said that Elwing's smiles would never fully reach her eyes. Such was a disquieting gleaning of foresight, however, one that Galadriel did not wish to accept as a truth, so she pushed it from her thoughts entirely.  
  
Hers was not the only mind turned towards the return of normalcy and merriment, however. All of Sirion strove towards such a thing, and to that end the Gondolindrim had taken to crafting sleds for the great sandy dunes, now frosted in a thick blanket of glittering white. Such was a pastime they had often kept in the snowy peaks of the Encircling Mountains during the winter months, and Gondolin's survivors were eager to carry on that tradition in their new home. Doriath had been too flat in shape for such sports, but the Sindar were as eager as their Noldorin neighbors to make the best of the cold season. Even now she could hear Egalmoth's bell-like voice as he organized those who were waiting to try out skiing on the steeper dunes, while Tuor orchestrated the sledding; their words full of the crisp winter wind and the salty tang of the lazily undulating sea just beyond them.  
  
Galadriel merely watched, feeling a soft stillness in her bones for the sight of her people with slowly growing smiles upon their faces, hearing their hesitant laughter and joyful voices grow all the more sure with each passing day. Sirion was a city built on grief and founded in determination for life lived anew, and it had been unexpected – but bittersweet and welcome - to have encountered the survivors of Gondolin on their way to seek out refuge underneath Gil-galad's banner. The news of Turgon's death had been a numb sort of blow to Galadriel after a year full of such blows, but it had been a balm to see the woman-child she'd known Idril to be as a matron now steeped in wisdom and set in her place. She was Elenwë's daughter in all ways, from the dark gold of her hair to the soft glow in her grey eyes; her gentle demeanor and easy words carrying a distinctively Vayarin lilt in both sound in shape. Yet, there was, perhaps, a Noldorin steel about her for the way she held her people together and pushed them onwards, ever onwards, when all they had left were the clothes on their backs and the few possessions they had been able to claim before Morgoth destroyed their home in an unholy storm of Orc-swords and Balrog-fire.  
  
More surprising had been to greet the Atani man at her side, and the boy-child that union had produced. But Galadriel only needed but a moment with Tuor, son of Huor, to understand the might resting deep within his soul, great in shape even before bearing the mark of a Vala's favor. Idril's choice was a rare one – queer, some would say, destined only for pain and heartbreak – but it was an echo of another love Galadriel had known firsthand for its truth and potency. Over time, she had come to welcome Tuor's wisdom as much as she would that of any Elf-lord in their council, and great was the love the people of Gondolin held for their princess' mortal husband. In time, the survivors of Doriath could not help but feel the same.  
  
. . . that was not to say that there were not hurdles to be faced in two such ancient peoples - previously so long set in their ways - making their way together for the first. But, so far, the unifying force of combined loss and a common enemy had held together those who, perhaps, would have preferred to make their separate ways otherwise. For their efforts, Sirion was becoming a refuge and a _home_ all the more so with each passing day.  
  
Yet, while Galadriel saw the needs of the whole as a burden and a responsibility for her own shoulders to bear, more so were the needs of her husband's great-niece - the girl they had claimed as their own after the Second Kinslaying. For, while there were those who hesitantly embraced the idea of _more_ and _again_ , Elwing was ever slow to smile and find her feet underneath her.  
  
Even now, Elwing stood at the top of the dune, her thin, willowy body painfully still and unmoving underneath her dark violet cloak. She hardly breathed, and she did not move, not even to put her bare hands into her pockets when they turned pink from the cold. Her breath frosted on the air before her, and her long, inky black hair streamed out behind her from the playful touch of the breeze; but that was the only sign of her being one of the living, and not an artist's uncanny illusion of cloth and marbled stone.  
  
More unsettling were the times when Elwing's eyes did not find the seashore. Rather, they flickered back to the city of white stone, and the Silmaril that waited within a locked chest in her chambers. All the more so with each passing day, Galadriel found it difficult to coax the child to leave her rooms without wearing the gem hidden about her throat. Better would she know how to handle childish tantrums for the idea of leaving the jewel behind, but what Galadriel did not know how to answer was the alarming sort of _panic_ that would fill Elwing when she was parted from the gem for too long. It was something that Galadriel would have thought to fade in time – a scar deeply gouged from fleeing Doriath in the dead of the night – but it was a need, a _desperation_ that seemed to grow all the more so with the passing of time, rather than fading away as she first had hoped.  
  
Yet, that was a disquieting a thought, one that Galadriel pushed away for another time, unwilling to examine it when all was good and fair around them.  
  
“Elwing, Elwing!” came the bright, cheerful voice as it ascended over the crest of the dune. Galadriel glanced to see Idril's son making his way towards them, his sled held in hand, and his face flushed from his exertion in climbing up the steep hill once more.  
  
Standing as the complete opposite of Elwing, Eärendil seemed to chase thrills and laughter where she sought solitude and the quiet of the beech-wood when her grief grew to overtake her. Eärendil's smiles were a bit too bright, his gaiety a bit too forced, but with each passing day his high spirits became a true thing as he fought to turn his grief aside. In time, Galadriel only hoped that his healing would be something that Elwing mimicked, and shared in turn. Better then would the girl would be, but only then.  
  
When they'd first met the ragged survivors of Gondolin, Eärendil had stared at Elwing with a look that was wide and solemn upon his face – at odds with the tender shape of his years when he pulled his mother aside to ask if the quiet girl with the star in her hands was Lúthien herself – for surely, he had insisted in his young, awed voice, she _had to be_.  
  
Idril had smiled fondly at her son's words, but there had been a flicker of consideration in her eyes when she whispered that Lúthien was gone from the circles of the world, but her granddaughter remained – and, no doubt, could use a friend after the losses she had suffered. Like a warrior summoned by his liege-lord, Eärendil had understood the unspoken in his mother's words – that while he had escaped the fires of Gondolin with both of his parents living, Elwing had neither father nor mother nor brothers left to speak of, and from that day forward he took her grief as a personal challenge to battle and overcome.  
  
Though Elwing had not encouraged his friendship in the slightest, Eärendil had persevered through her stony silences and withering glances. Now, while the girl did not welcome his company, she no longer tried to force him away - which was all that Eärendil seemed to require of her. Galadriel would even wager that Elwing longed for his friendship more than even she herself realized, for when her eyes were not searching for the Silmaril, they oftentimes sought _him_ out, as they did even now – focusing on the snow clinging to his cloak, and the bright reflection of the sky and sea in his eyes as he grinned at her.  
  
“Will you go down with me?” Eärendil bid of her. “It may _look_ scary at first, but I promise you, there is no joy superior to it.” In his hand he held a metal disk, hastily crafted by Celebrimbor's smiths for the first snowstorm of the season, and he gestured behind him to where Tuor was pushing another wary looking Sindarin Elf down the hill for the first.  
  
Elwing merely blinked at him in reply, and Galadriel did not think that she would answer him.  
  
Yet, Eärendil was unperturbed by her silence, as he ever was. “I could go down with you, if you'd wish,” he tried again. “That way you would not have to worry, and just enjoy yourself.” His eyes were full of hope, and his face was flushed from more than the sting of the winter.  
  
Finally, Elwing's mouth dipped in the barest of frowns. “Not this time,” she whispered, so softly that Galadriel had to strain to hear her.  
  
But Eärendil heard her clearly. “Are you sure?” he asked again, used to tried and true persistence when it came to his friend. “Because I could _feel_ you watching me earlier. I know that you want to try.”  
  
“I do not want to,” a hard line formed Elwing's mouth, and her eyes narrowed. “Please, do not ask me again,” her voice took on an edge when she spoke, a shape that Galadriel recognized from both Dior and Thingol before her.  
  
Eärendil pursed his lips, unmoved by the sting of her words. “I will ask you every time I come to the top of this hill,” he warned. Nonetheless, his voice was shaped pleasantly, as if he were simply commenting on the weather. “You will try sledding before the day is through, my friend. This I promise you.”  
  
He did not wait to hear her reply, but Elwing's stare was withering enough for him to feel it as he ran back over to where his father was waiting for him. Tuor saw him approach, and his smile turned all the wider in welcome. He leaned forward to muse his son's wayward mop of curls, their yellow heads matching as Tuor leaned down to say something Galadriel could not hear before Eärendil declared himself ready to go down again. Elwing watched them for a moment, something flickering in her expression too quickly for her to fully see. And yet, she could guess the shape of her thoughts well enough, and understand them in kind.  
  
“Why do you not enjoy yourself, child?” Galadriel at last asked. Her words were patient and poised to coax, and with them she gently touched the girl's fëa with her own life's force, surprised for how turbulent her spirit was to the touch.  
  
“There is nothing enjoyable about the snow,” Elwing whispered after a long pause. She was silent again after speaking, and Galadriel waited for her to continue.  
  
“I do not like the winter at all,” Elwing at last found the words to express her thoughts. There was a tremor to her voice, matching the restless roll of her spirit underneath. “It _reminds_ me, when all I want to do is forget.”  
  
Galadriel took in a deep breath when she gleaned a flash of memory from the girl's spirit, she herself remembering the hushed winter night when the Fëanorians had marched on Doriath. They had not been able to find the twins, and so, Nimloth had pushed the Silmaril into her daughter's hands and told her to _run_ and not look back. Celeborn had gotten Elwing safely through the forests and across the Sirion river when he would have preferred to stay and fight. Galadriel had remained behind, once again staining her hands red with elven blood as she stood against her father's kin for the sake of her husband's people – for the sake of _her people_ now, refusing to yield as her king had bid of her. Even now she could remember the sharp tang of the cold, and the unrecognizable fervency to Maedhros' eyes as he sat uncomfortably upon Dior's throne – _Thingol's throne_ – once the kingdom was taken. She had negotiated for the release of those who had survived the scourge, her words harsh and cutting as she called him _Russandol_ in spiteful memory of the gentle mentor he had once been to so many. In return, he'd bitten out _Artanis_ as a blow, as if they had both betrayed bonds they should have rather seen untouched and honored. Her fëa had been a bright, untamed thing then, matching the fey son of Fëanor power for power in all ways before he waved her on - but not before promising that they would meet again, with no quarter shown between them next time.  
  
Next time . . .  
  
She exhaled, and let her memories go with her breath, casting aside the last image she bore of Doriath in the softly falling snow. Distantly, she remembered walking through the gently frosted woods with those who survived, seeing only all those who should have been amongst their host, but were not.  
  
. . . but no. With the painful practice of putting too many ghosts to rest for too many years, Galadriel set aside her grief, and knelt before the child.  
  
“I understand,” she simply said, feeling the deep gouges across the child's soul, and wishing that she could do something more – anything more – so sooth them. It was an urge she felt as much for the memory of the girl's kin – whom Galadriel too had loved – as it was for the growing love she herself felt for the child. “Believe me when I say that I do.”  
  
Her voice was softer than she'd first intended for it to be, her grief making it through when she'd rather hide it away, leaving it uncovered and forgotten until it was a pain no more. “Would you believe that I once thought that I would never enjoy the cold season again for the memories it held, much as you do now?”  
  
Elwing looked at her, as if weighing her words for a truth. Galadriel knew the figure she cut before the child – the awe and respect Elwing held for her - and she softened her features as best she could in reply, letting herself be weighed without argument.  
  
“The Helcaraxë,” Elwing at last whispered in understanding. “Eärendil said that his mother does not care for the snow for much the same reason.”  
  
Galadriel bowed her head, feeling the name of that dreaded tundra strike her as a glancing blow before skidding away, with no lasting harm left in its wake. Someday, she could only hope that her memories would be the same for the girl before her.  
  
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was the Helcaraxë I remembered, and I let that memory rob me of my joy for the present. It was only in others that I found my joy returned . . . through your uncle . . . through your grandmother . . . through so many of your kinsmen, really. They showed me that there were still those here with me _now_ , waiting to love me, waiting to live _with_ me. It was for them that I put my ghosts aside, and let them rest in peace.”  
  
Elwing was silent for a moment, clearly pondering her words. “But I _miss_ them,” she confessed, her voice at last cracking with the strength of her emotions. “I do not know how to _not_ miss them; such a thing does not yet seem possible.”  
  
She placed a hand over her chest as she spoke, as if by doing so she could put pressure on her heart and all of the absent, yawning voids within her spirit, filling in the holes where once echoes of her family had defined her child's soul.  
  
Galadriel found her eyes strangely warm when she blinked, remembering her own brothers, every one of them lost to Námo through Morgoth's black guile. She remembered her mentor in Melian, the replacement for her father she had found in Thingol, and her dear, dear friend in Lúthien. With even more grief, she remembered Nimloth, whom she had raised as if she were her own, and Dior whom she had also come to love . . .  
  
“And you shall always miss them,” Galadriel whispered, soothing over the girl's spirit with her own, allowing her to feel the barest echoes of her own losses – her own scars, long scabbed over and healed after it first seemed impossible to even stay the bleeding. “And yet, someday your missing shall change, this I can promise you with all certainty. It will change from something so fierce that it feels as if you are drowning within it, to a dull ache, a quiet pain. And, sometimes, that ache will turn to a warmth, allowing you to remember that which you loved and cherished, alongside your longing.”  
  
Elwing was silent for a long moment, leaning into their embrace of spirits as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. Galadriel closed her eyes against the child's mourning, hating all the more so the raw pain and broken sort of betrayal Elwing also felt - that being worse than all as the girl wondered how her father could love a jewel, no matter how sacred and coveted, over his wife and children and kingdom. Galadriel reached out, and took Elwing's hands in her own, giving her something physical to latch onto alongside the intangible, letting her feel just how much she was loved and held dear _now_ , no matter that she was not a daughter born of her own flesh.  
  
“How long?” Elwing at last spoke, her voice very small between them. "How long does it take for the missing to stop?"  
  
Galadriel remembered her own losses, and set her mouth in reply. “Too long, it always feels in the moment. Yet, you are a strong child, born of great names. You will heal, I promise you. And, in the end, you will be all the more stronger for it.”  
  
“Sometimes I do not want to be strong. I am tired of having to be so,” Elwing whispered; such terrible words to come from the mouth of a child so young. Galadriel blinked, and felt her heart turn sore within her chest. “Sometimes, I wish . . .” she faltered, and Galadriel tightened her grip about her hands.  
  
“In those moments, that is when you find your strength in others, and allow them to lean on you in their turn,” Galadriel replied, feeling where a presence hovered right beyond them, clearly unsure if he was interrupting a moment he'd aught not.  
  
Elwing quickly drew her hands away, and narrowed her gaze crossly at Eärendil – whose eyes were wide with question and true concern.  
  
“I said that I did not wish to try, and I meant it,” she informed him before he could speak, her words coming out sharply as she reached up to wipe at her eyes. Her tears had not fallen, even still, Galadriel observed.  
  
“And I have decided that I will not let you stand still,” Eärendil replied after a moment, his words growing stronger with each syllable spoken. He furrowed his brow, allowing determination to take the place of his uncertainty.  
  
And still, Elwing would not yield. She narrowed her eyes, but, unperturbed, Eärendil continued: “It would mean a lot to me,” he alttered his attack, replacing calm certainty with the hesitance of hope. “Used to be, it was Glorfindel who would take me sledding. He had a great enthusiasm for the winter, and yet, now . . .” his voice tapered off, and for a moment, his face was a mirror of Elwing's own.  
  
Just barely, Elwing's look softened. A long moment passed, pregnant with promise, before she reached out to hesitantly touch the disk Eärendil still held, understanding what he meant to say when the words would not come. Slowly, Elwing let out a breath. Her terribly bright eyes softened, and she summoned the slightest smile.  
  
“Once,” she at last allowed, but in her voice was the resignation of apprehension, rather than any true vexation.  
  
“Once you try it, you shall wish to do so more than once,” Eärendil teased, his face nonetheless brightening. “It shall be like sailing all over again, you shall see!”  
  
“Perhaps,” Elwing was not so easily moved. Her face remained regal and impassive, queen-like, even at so young an age. Yet, the indomitable wall of her expression was something that Eärendil only seemed to smile all the more so for seeing, accepting the challenge with a stubborn tenacity Galadriel could not tell for Finwë or the combined might of Hador and Haleth in his blood.  
  
Either way, when he reached out to tug her towards the crest of the dune, Elwing followed him. She did not look back, no matter that Galadriel watched them all the while.  
  
Minutes passed as Tuor settled the two young ones on the sled, and still Galadriel lingered, a nearly parental worry filling her as she imagined all the harm that a mishap could cause on the icy hill, when -  
  
“It will do well to watch that boy in the days to come,” she heard a warm, measured voice speak at her back. Galadriel glanced over her shoulder to see that her husband had returned from his first turn with Egalmoth's skis alongside Thranduil and Amdír. When she looked, his eyes too were trained on Elwing and Eärendil.  
  
“For a great many things,” Galadriel agreed, welcoming him with a wordless flush of greeting against his spirit.  
  
She turned back to watch the children as Tuor sent them on their way. Eärendil gave a breathless whoop of delight while Elwing tried to clamp down on her shriek at the unexpected burst of speed and the sting of the cold air. Galadriel carefully felt for the girl's place against her consciousness, satisfied when she felt her joy rise higher than her apprehension as they raced down the hill.  
  
“You do well by her,” Celeborn at last stated. Her back was still to him, and he wrapped his arms about her shoulders from behind, resting his cheek against her hair as she leaned into him out of habit for their long years together.  
  
“I do not have your touch with children, I must confess,” Galadriel returned. “Sometimes that knowledge grieves me.”  
  
She felt him smile against her hair. “I have never known you to back down from a challenge,” he settled for saying, rather than consoling her. In answer, she felt her own mouth curve upwards in the barest of smiles.  
  
“But you are wise, and your heart shows through even when you would bid it still,” Celeborn amended his teasing to say in all seriousness. “In the end, it is Elwing who must decide that she wishes to heal. Until then, she shall not lack for guidance or encouragement.”  
  
As always, his high opinion – his love – meant more to her than even the approval of the Valar above. There were times when she ever strove to serve the whole, and fell short by the demands of her family with her doing so - or so she felt. Ever was it Celeborn who would be happier with a simple home filled with the laughter of children and family, the burdens of crowns and leadership a far thought from them. As a contrasting pull in a deep eddy, there were still times when she had to swallow away her initial motivations of _more_ and _everything_ that had turned her towards Middle-earth in the first place. _Artanis_ she resolved to be no more, but sometimes she felt her husband as a compass to her heart as she figured out precisely who she was to be as _Galadriel_.  
  
She felt, more than saw when Eärendil and Elwing reached the bottom of the hill – the girl's legs boneless and her face flushed with adrenaline as she allowed Eärendil to help her to her feet. Snow had sprayed up with their landing, and white crystals clung to her hair and dusted her face as they slipped and struggled up the steep incline of the hill – they each eagerly chattering about going down again. Behind her, she could feel Celeborn's face soften at the sight, his fondness for the children a warm pulse against her fëa, soothing away the chill of the winter.  
  
As ever, his thoughts were an open and steady current against her own, just as her mind was to his. Quickly, before he could hide the thought from her – already well knowing her opinion on the matter – he imagined them with a true child of their own, rather than one merely claimed by their hearts. Such was a wish that had long weighed upon his mind, even when he accepted her decision – her _need_ , really – not to bring a child into the world while Morgoth held such a complete grip over Middle-earth. Soon, sooner than she wished, the days would darken even further, and she would not give up a child of her body on the altar of his Shadow. She would not . . . she _could not_.  
  
. . . strong enough was she for a great many things, a great many burdens. But, that . . .  
  
“Nimloth would have thanked you for your efforts,” Celeborn settled for saying, subtly weaving her thoughts away from where she wished them not to go. She leaned back against him in appreciation, understanding all that he did not say.  
  
_Would that she could be here, with her daughter_ , she thought, but left her words unspoken. Were that they were _all_ here, from her brothers to his family and every hole and wanting place from this side of the Sea to the next.  
  
. . . but they were not, and such thoughts took away from the here, from the now. Galadriel breathed in with her missing, with her wanting, and let it out again.  
  
_The shape of the world is ever changing, and it will only continue to do so as the years pass us by,_ Celeborn's voice was soft against her mind. _All that I ask of this life is to be allowed to remain by your side, for as long as I may._  
  
She let their bond fill with her affection and love before it ebbed to a peaceful current once more, feeling true contentment as she watched the children crest the rise of the hill before excitedly darting to where Tuor stood applauding Elwing's first try at sledding. Within moments, they were already set to go off again.  
  
Galadriel watched them, and she felt the exact moment where Celeborn's thoughts turned against her own, wondering . . .  
  
“No,” she firmly declared, belaying his wish before he could even speak his idea aloud.  
  
“Why not?” he countered, and she could feel his grin. “Is Artanis of the Noldor, daughter of the most revered house of Finwë, scared by the idea of -”  
  
“ - I fear _nothing_ , husband dear, _especially_ not -”  
  
“ - a harmless hill of snow, and a mere _moment_ without an iron grasp upon the world around you?”  
  
He had her, and she glared, unseen by him.  
  
“I will not do so because I _wish_ not to do so. Nothing more, and nothing less,” she settled for stating obstinately. At that, Celeborn laughed at her outright.  
  
“As you wish, my lady,” he stepped back from her, and when she looked to her side she caught the twinkling in his eyes. “But _I_ wish to try. And so . . .”  
  
He walked up to Tuor and the collection of waiting sleds without another word said between them. She saw the human man glance back towards her, and ask if she was going down. But, before Celeborn could give her excuses, she set her face in a serene mask and determinedly walked up to them.  
  
“One for me, as well, if you would be so kind,” Galadriel asked of Tuor, caring not for the way he shook his head and smiled as he glanced between them, bemusement filling his expression.  
  
At the bottom of the hill, the children started cheering when they saw her intention. She held her head up as regally as she could in reply, dutifully folding her long body down and arranging the dove grey folds of her cloak about the disk – the slip of metal not feeling like _nearly_ enough for its intended purpose.  
  
“Do you need a push, my lady?” Tuor asked, but all she could see was Celeborn's smiling face as he launched himself forward, the silver of his hair already blurring together with the sheen of the noontide sun on the well packed snow. Watching him, she thought: _if I am going to do this, I shall do so properly._ He would not reach the bottom before her.  
  
She pushed off from the crest of the dune, and found the bright glare of the sea and snow and sky rise up to meet her. Her body flew forward, her vision blurring as the wind whipped back her hair and her cloak billowed behind her like the wings of some great bird in reply. The moment was fleeting and elating – more than enough to make up for the indignity of her landing as the snow flew up in an impressive wave to cover her, and she skidded to a somewhat jarring halt.  
  
But, she noticed with some satisfaction, she had arrived at the _exact_ same moment as Celeborn. He had not bested her.  
  
“Well done, Lady Galadriel!” Eärendil praised, and even Elwing wore a true smile on her normally solemn face. For that alone, Galadriel considered the ride a fair price paid as she allowed the child to give her a hand in helping her to her feet.  
  
“You did well enough for your first time,” Celeborn teased as he leaned down to pick up her sled for her. He already held the children's sled in hand with his own. “But, you were not quick enough to best me.”  
  
“Was I not?” Galadriel returned with an exaggerated crossness. “For I thought us to arrive at the same time, and my vision is rarely false in such things.”  
  
“If you wish to go again,” Celeborn returned nonchalantly, “We shall discover the better between us for certain.”  
  
Galadriel narrowed her eyes, but she felt her look soften when she took in the way the children were looking at her too – leaving her with no doubt that they intended to join in on the race as well.  
  
She sighed, but the expression was a fond thing, and her eyes smiled for her. “If you wish so dearly to lose, husband mine, then please, feel free to try again,” she gave her challenge, and turned back up the hill without waiting to see if they followed.  
  
But follow they did, and she felt them close behind her as she breathed in with the winter once more.


	73. "to throw truth from mirrors"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil & Legolas || Prompt: _Devour_
> 
> This sets in to my Thranduil & Family line of ficlets, after chapters 50 and 57 and before chapters 58 and 66. Also, I have to issue a most serious warning for _all of the fluff_ in this update. Seriously . . . _the fluff._
> 
> Enjoy. :)

**Devour**  
  
The pain now dominating his left side, was, perhaps, only eclipsed by the more bruised shape of his pride for suffering such a blow in the first place.  
  
The true irony of the matter was that they had been alert for such an occurrence in the first place; for the eastern-most passages of Emyn Duir were little used, and had fallen greatly into neglect and disrepair since the time of his father's reign. Cave-ins and crumbling walkways were an expected occurrence, and for that reason alone, most knew better than to travel them lightly and without just cause. Yet, in the more than a thousand years since their losses suffered at Mordor, their numbers had finally recovered to the point where they were hesitantly thinking about expanding the boundaries of their halls once more.  
  
For that end, his architects had scouted the abandoned caverns before sharing their ideas and looking for him to approve their decisions. What had at first been an afternoon of successfully picking their way through the neglected spaces suddenly turned dire when the corridor about them trembled and groaned in warning before the entire ceiling gave way above them. No one had been seriously injured, but more than one elf bore cuts and bruises – or, as in Thranduil's case, had a broken rib or three to show for the mishap.  
  
To add to his annoyance – for his injury had confined him to a limited range of motion, and even worse, _bedrest_ \- this occurred right before he was set to journey to Rhovanion to treat with Prince Vitiges, one of the leaders of the tribes of Northmen who ever gained more power and pride with each passing century. While both his people and the Northmen benefited through their trade and a relatively unstrained alliance, there were times when the mannish foresters harvested too greatly, too quickly, from the trees of the Greenwood. In an effort to forestall another wound in the forest akin to the tragedy of the East Bight, a visit in person was called for, and Thranduil had decided to head that meeting. His doing so would show the utmost seriousness with which his people viewed the matter, thus accomplishing their own ends while catering to the prince's ego in his being seen to over such a 'paltry' matter by an 'equal'.  
  
Rather than insulting the prince by rescheduling the talks until Thranduil could better travel, they had elected to send Calelassel in his stead – which sat as well with him as a boulder left upon cracking ice. It was not that he doubted his wife's competence in dealing with the Men of Rhovanion - if one looked at the matter from a purely tactical point of view, she was the clear choice to send, even if he were in full health, for she had stood at the vanguard of the assault when his father dealt with Mankind's desecration of the forest those many centuries prior. Yet, unfortunately, the Northmen were set in their ways, and their eyes would not see the same weight of power when treating with a woman – be she even an elvish queen – as they would with another man. A part of Thranduil wished that he could be there to see Calelassel deal with the mortal's ridiculous conceptions of gender, just as much as he desired to stand as a shield at her side should she have need of him in any way.  
  
To that end, Amathelon had been eager to go as a part of his mother's guard, and he had solemnly promised to do his father proud in every way. Yet, that was another loss to endure, even when the rational part of his mind acknowledged the need and inevitability for children to see to their own path, their own growth, without their parents standing in their way.  
  
. . . for that was the glaring truth of the matter, all political reasons aside: he had not been parted from his wife since the earliest days of the Third Age, when he had traveled often between Lindon and the Greenwood, doing his utmost to simultaneously settle his affairs in Harlindon and take on the burden of his father's crown as it was so unexpectedly thrust upon him. Thranduil did not like the stretched, _thin_ feeling of their bond across the distance, and he spent much of the energy that he should have focused on healing in seeking her out from afar, feeling her as the light of a star when he was accustomed to her being as the heat of the sun to his senses.  
  
Would that they could deal with the affair in Rhovanion together, even, but their youngest son had seen not even a decade of years in age. Legolas was too young to embark on such a journey, and neither was his fëa set enough in its shape to endure both parents being away for too long. A parting was unavoidable, no matter which way the matter was viewed, and Thranduil tried to keep his spirits from descending into melancholy and irritation during the fortnight that Calelassel was gone from his side. Helping him in that endeavor, Legolas seemed to endure the parting from his mother as ill as Thranduil did, and he felt his own mood brightened for trying to see to his son's happiness in the intermediate time.  
  
In the end, the days passed all too slowly for his taste, turning him painfully aware of each creeping minute and hour - when normally they passed him by as unnoticed as the daylight to the sun. When their final night apart at last arrived, he turned his senses from trying to find Calelassel from afar – for the trees themselves had whispered that she was already beneath their eaves, eager and glad as they were to have their queen returned to her place – and focused instead on seeing his injuries through to healing, much as he should have been doing for the last two weeks' time.  
  
To that end, he dimmed his bonds with both his wife and children, and instead focused all of his attention and energy inward. It had been years since he'd relaxed the enchantments covering his scarred face in illusion – not since Amathelon himself was a youth, and hearing of the War of Wrath for the first – for that alteration to the Song of his fëa had become as routine to make it nearly instinctual, much as was predicted when his wounds were still fresh and the scars there first healing.  
  
But now he pulled his power back, instead redirecting all of his energy towards healing and rest. He quieted his mind and fell deeply into a much needed slumber, until -  
  
“Ada, Ada! Are you hurt?”  
  
Thranduil opened his eyes to the shadows of mid-night, but his vision soon sharpened enough to see the hazy outline of his son's face, illuminated by the soft remnants of the fire in its place. Instinctively, Thranduil stiffened, feeling both Legolas' distress and concern, and instantly searching for its source. Yet, he only had to feel the air trace its telling hands over the open, _exposed_ shape of his face before he knew -  
  
_“Ada_ _r_ _!”_ Legolas pressed again, uncertain how to interpret the apparent calm his father was acting with.  
  
It was not shame, but it was most certainly _unease_ that bit through Thranduil for the horrific sight of his scarred face being bared to his child's gaze. He looked, but Legolas' expression was shaped in horror for a different reason that first he'd guess – thinking that the nightmareish wound was still fresh, and needing attention, at that. The boy's mind was already restlessly leaping from one scenario to the next, picturing a Balrog emerging from the fireplace and already wondering how he could fetch the healer and slay the beast at the same time. Over and over his thoughts circled with the truly impressive imagination that only a child could possess, before -  
  
Reflexively, he reached out to calm his son's thoughts, stilling them from their restless spin. Almost instantly he felt Legolas' fear and adrenaline sooth, and was able to breathe easier himself in turn.  
  
“Calm yourself,” Thranduil softly bid. “It is not a wound fresh, but rather, one older than this age of the world. I need no aid that has not already been given.”  
  
Legolas was silent for a long, heavy moment. With wide eyes he watched him sit upright, turning his torso so that the ruined half of his face was facing away from the child. Legolas stared at him curiously, but he did not try to peer and see anything more than was shown to him out of respect. He did climb up to sit on the bed when Thranduil gestured, questions already racing through the bright gleam of his eyes in the dark. Confusion and bafflement were greater in his mind than any disgust or abhorrence – or worse, _fear_ – for which he was grateful to find, ready as he was to call his illusion forth at the first sign of distress from the child.  
  
As if feeling his trepidation, Legolas leaned forward to peer curiously at his face. His eyes were very large as he took in the ruined flesh now revealed to his gaze, even going as far to lean forward and touch his small hands to his face – one hand braced on that which was fair while the other sought out that which had been devoured in fire, as if unsure if the scarred flesh was a lie when he'd known an illusion for so long.  
  
“Fire,” he at last stated, seeing but flashes of memory from Thranduil's mind; flashes that he could not wholly keep from sharing as they raced across his consciousness with an unerring clarity.  
  
“Of a sort,” Thranduil answered, fighting to keep very, very still underneath his son's curious fingers and seeking gaze.  
  
“Balrog-fire?” Legolas asked. He held his breath after that, remembering the Valaraukar from the stories he and Tauriel listened too before the evening fires, those same tales following his thoughts as black dreams into the unwaking hours.  
  
“Close,” Thranduil answered, tilting his head, “but not quite.”  
  
“Dragon-fire, then,” Legolas next stated with certainty, rather than asking.  
  
Thranduil did not have to confirm his words as the boy fell silent, clearly processing what he saw before him. He felt a wave of unease bite through him at the child's apparent acceptance of his face, ill as he was for his scars being so openly displayed to any other – even to the closest of kindred. It was a sight he still did not care for showing his wife, and to see a mere child look on and calmly observe what even _he_ had difficulty accepting about himself . . .  
  
Thranduil took in a deep breath, and had to try twice to find his words. “Many millennia ago,” he took to explaining, “there was a great war, one greater than any the world had known before, nor seen since - not even when we toppled the Black Enemy from his might upon the battle-plains of Mordor. The _War of Wrath_ it is called now, where the Foe of the World was forced from his place, and the very shape of the land was changed as a result of our struggles.”  
  
“The battle where Morgoth Bauglir was dethroned and cast beyond the Doors of Night,” Legolas recited dutifully, as if repeating the words straight from his lessons.  
  
Thranduil inclined his head, even now able to remember the divine proportions of that battle as if mere days had passed since its fury, rather than centuries. He could clearly remember the violence with which Morgoth's rage shook the land, just as he could recall how the cast of dragon wings blotted out even the sun above. Then, on the ground below . . .  
  
“There were many thousands of dragons we slew during the war, using the black arrows that the Maiar of Aulë showed us how to craft in order to pierce their diamond scales,” Thranduil went on to explain. “Your mother -”  
  
“ - a master-archer,” Legolas finished his words, his own newly burgeoning preference for the bow brightening his speech.  
  
“Yes,” Thranduil agreed, remembering those first, war-torn days of his knowing her with fondness alongside that which was darkness and violence in the plainest of ways. “And a most adapt one, at that, no matter her youth during that war. Yet, it only took but a moment of distraction, and one of the beasts came close enough to do her a true harm. I did not think twice before rushing forward with one of the black arrows in hand, and -” he gestured to his face, from the white glazing over his left eye to the raw sinews and flashes of yellowing bone. “I lost half my face to his fire, but the dragon was felled completely by my hand. There are those who have paid heavier prices than I for facing fire-drakes throughout the centuries.”  
  
Legolas' eyes were very wide as he finished his tale, and Thranduil was surprised to feel a warm sort of _pride_ from his son - as if the fact that his father was a dragon-slayer was a greater revelation than the war-wound he had spent so many centuries concealing. If the child had felt any sort of disgust or fear for the ugliness of his face, that was now gone completely as he leaned back to meet his eyes – both of his them, even the one which the fire devoured. There was naught but adoration in his gaze – alongside an awed sort of _adulation_ \- for which Thranduil was surprised to feel a warm sort of heaviness fill his own spirit in reply. He was . . . pleased by his son's regard, and he let go a breath he'd not realized he'd been holding, his spirit worrying about his son's opinion where his conscious mind had not yet realized his doing so.  
  
“The dragons are gone now,” Legolas at last pondered aloud. “Are they not?”  
  
“Most are,” Thranduil replied after a pause. “Those greatest in might certainly are, for Ancalagon's evil is a shadow that will never again fall upon this land. But in the furthest north there are still remnants of the great wyrms of old – most were fledgling drakes at the time of the war, and any that now remain will keep to their place unless summoned.”  
  
Or, that was what the Wise hoped. He swallowed against an uneasy glimmer of foresight, given by the shadow of Thingol's might within his blood, and cast his knowing aside. Gold attracted gold, and nothing but the gold of the Enemy himself would move a dragon from his hiding.  
  
Of this, he should have been certain. And yet . . .  
  
But his answer had satisfied Legolas, and the child looked at him in curiosity, biting his lip as a flicker of uneasiness bit through his spirit. Thranduil wondered for it before Legolas gathered his courage and quite simply asked, “Does it hurt?” in a voice that was filled with all of the solemnity his child's years could summon.  
  
“Not physically,” Thranduil answered, his voice equally soft. “Only the memory, in odd, unguarded moments brings me pain. Yet those moments never last long.”  
  
Legolas let loose a shaky breath. “I am sorry,” he said, his eyes full with feeling for his saying so.  
  
“I am not,” Thranduil answered simply – for this was the truth that had helped with his own recovery, rising greater than both his pride and his vanity to mean _everything_ to him. “My _loss_ kept your mother safe from harm, when I may have instead known the _much_ greater agony of losing her. My pain ensured that she would someday be my wife, and she in turn gave to me you and your brother. I would have endured this a hundred times over if it meant that she – that any of you - could be spared but a moment's harm.” For that was the simplest truth of the matter; one that meant more than anything else ever could.  
  
Legolas was silent, no doubt wondering how he would feel if faced with a similar choice, before finally nodding his head and gravely agreeing. “I think that I understand,” he whispered, and Thranduil felt his son's regard for him as a low warmth in his spirit, greater than any dragon's heat could ever hope to contend with.  
  
Hopefully, he would never have to know such a similar choice, Thranduil thought. Hopefully he would never know anything more than the peace of the trees and the sanctuary of the forest. And yet . . .  
  
He sighed, and decided to leave those fears for another day. When the time came, he would simply act as a shield for his family once more, and until such a defense was needed . . .  
  
With the adrenaline of the moment having passed, Legolas' eyes were finally drooping with the lateness of the hour. Thranduil tilted his head to the side and asked, “Why did you seek me out initially, child? This is an hour meant for sleep.”  
  
“It does not matter now,” Legolas answered with a yawn, and Thranduil caught a glimpse of dark dreams in the night from his mind before the memory was pushed aside entirely.  
  
“You may stay here,” Thranduil took little more than a moment to make his decision, opening an arm to welcome him. “If we are fortunate, your mother may even be home by morningtide, and we can greet her together.”  
  
He felt a low pulse of relief from his son's spirit, and watched him burrow underneath the blankets with no more coaxing needed than that. Thranduil waited a moment, and then laid down next to him, telling himself that he should not have been surprised by the ease with which Legolas curled in against him, the small child caring not that such a visage was but a whisper away from his own as he nestled his head into the hollow beneath his chin. It took only moments for him to fall into a deep sleep, one filled with fair dreams - this Thranduil ensured as he touched the child's mind with his own, asking Irmo to watch over him throughout the night.  
  
A moment passed, one filled with a quiet contemplation, before he too surrendered himself to sleep's keeping, and found rest with his dreams.  
  
It was not until an hour before the dawn that he felt a familiar tugging upon his spirit, drawing him from his rest when her quiet step and careful movements said that she would have rather him remained sleeping.  
  
Thranduil blinked, and looked up to find his wife's fond gaze upon them both, looking down with a softness in her eyes that he'd not first realized just how keenly he had missed. His spirit greedily sucked in renewed strength from their bond, much the same as she did, feeling peace and rejuvenation fill him from merely her presence alone.  
  
“I was anxious to be home, so we pushed on through the night. Few of our men protested, they feeling much the same about their families as I,” Calelassel whispered in explanation, green glittering from the blue of her eyes as she spoke. With nothing but a wordless brush of feeling, she let him know that the talks with the Northmen had been successful, but there would be time for speaking about that on the morrow. “However, you were both sleeping so soundly,” she confessed. “I was afraid to wake you.”  
  
“The years will quickly pass before he will no longer wish to be held as such,” Thranduil whispered, running an absent hand through Legolas' hair as the child turned in his sleep, not awakening, but nonetheless feeling contentment fill him for both of his parents looking down on him in love. “You know me to be greedy at heart, and I shall take what I can whilst I may.”  
  
“Truly, you are downright dragon-esque at times,” Calelassel wryly agreed, her eyes flickering to take in the bare shape of his scars, still open to the night air. Something about her expression softened even further as she took in each familiar line of singed flesh and raw tissue, and he felt her love fill him as a warmth nearly living in shape.  
  
“My beautiful husband,” she leaned over to press her mouth to the ruined shape of his cheek. He felt the softness of her hair fall forward to brush his skin, and he inhaled in contentment for the affection as it was given. He tugged her down next to him, feeling where the journey had left her weary in both body and spirit.  
  
“The dawn is still some time away. You should rest,” he whispered as she settled in against him, resting her head next to her son's while being careful of his still bruised ribs.  
  
“I have not truly slept these past few weeks, it seems,” she admitted, letting her eyes fall closed. “I may have been more cross with the Prince than I should have been, as a result.”  
  
“You would not be the only one,” Thranduil returned on a whisper, feeling as Legolas turned towards his mother's warmth. He ran his hand soothingly through Calelassel's hair as she pillowed her head against his chest, the same as he still did for his child. “But your son helped me with my efforts in restraining my own moods, merry child that he is.”  
  
He could feel her smile against his skin for his words. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but anything further she had to say was taken by sleep falling upon her, at last claiming her for dreams. Thranduil held her closer as he felt the pleasant lull of her spirit lap against his own. Then, with the warmth of both his wife and child surrounding him, he too closed his eyes and found dreams once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to mention that I am nearing 10,000 hits on this story - which is a personal best for me. So! If you manage to be the lucky person who hits 10,000, leave a prompt in the comment section, and I would love to write a ficlet for you. (Even if you are a few hits off, I don't mind - this is just an reader-appreciation thing on my part. So even if you are the second or third person to do so, keep them coming. :) ) If you've read this far, you pretty much know the characters and scenarios I like to write for, though I suppose that I'd try my hand at branching out if it came down to it. ;)
> 
> That said, I thank you all so very, _very_ much for reading and supporting me this far. You are _the best_.


	74. "just so long, and long enough"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrían/Elrond & Ensemble || Prompt: _Haven_
> 
> I am playing with a little explored time in the Third Age for Tolkien-fanfic, so there are a few notes at the bottom, if you wish to acclimate yourself. If not, I thank you for reading, and hope that you enjoy! :)

**Haven**  
  
It had been many a year since last a child's cries rang out through the peaceful ways of Imladris.  
  
For much too long, the clinging of mail and the song of swords had been as known as the thunder of the falls and the melody of the dawn. The weeping of new widows and the whimpers of fatherless boys had been louder than any halfhearted song in the Hall of Fire, while the prayers of those who still had kin they hoped to walk alive from the shadow of Angmar was as a constant undertone, day and night.  
  
This was not the first time Celebrían had known Imladris to be a safe-haven for refugees of Mankind, but this was the first time she had stood as Lady in absolute leadership of those who sought her husband's banner as a sign of safekeeping and hope. Wearying and taxing had been those days; bearing first through siege and then holding upright as their warriors – both of Elves and Men - left the valley to join Círdan's ranks from Lindon and the newly arrived host of Prince Eärnur from Gondor. She had joined the ranks of women praying to the Valar to watch over both her husband and sons, before knowing an unparalleled relief when her own returned relatively unscathed from marching against Angmar's black might.  
  
Centuries ago, she had hoped to see Elrond don armor for the last time when Sauron himself was thrown from his place in Mordor, and even more fruitlessly she had prayed for her sons to know little of the same violence their elders had lived through in their own days. Yet, both of those prayers had come to not – just as they had for so many mothers and wives – and this time she knew better than to pray again, with the Shadow not yet vanquished, but only sleeping, allowing them but a moment's respite as the Enemy grew in strength and dark thought once more.  
  
Now, almost sixty years had passed since the Witch-king was chased back to his Master's domain in the East. Yet, memory of his scourge still remained; he was not yet forgotten, and the slowly growing smiles amongst the surviving Dúnedain remained touched with grief for all they had lost, even still.  
  
Even so, today was a day of smiles and rejoicing. For this day Aranarth – not King as was his birthright, but rather _Chieftain_ by his own decree – welcomed his firstborn son into the world: Arahael, the combined heir of both Isildur and Anárion, of Elendil and Silmariën and Elros himself. The infant was born with a strong set of lungs, and his trumpeting cries announced his arrival more surely than any herald – putting a smile of relief to his exhausted mother's face, and turning Aranarth's countenance bright with more joy than Celebrían had seen since he was a youth, long before the blight of war and heartache left such a heavy shadow upon his brow.  
  
More subtly, Celebrían knew a matching relief for Arahael's robust cries. Berethiel's pregnancy had been long and fraught with complications, and her labor had been much the same - stretching from one sunset to the next as her child stubbornly refused to enter the world. Even the healing power of the Elves could do but little against a pain that was natural for all of its intensity, and the best they could do was to keep Berethiel positive and determined as they aided her struggles. Berethiel was understandably exhausted following her ordeal, and after holding and feeding her son for the first her eyes were already drooping. Even so, she fought to stay awake in order to take the opportunity to bathe and have her bedding changed before she slept. To that end, Aranarth reluctantly handed his son to the healers in order to tend to his wife himself - their marriage not purely being for political reasons, but rather, a much needed balm and solace after so many years of desolation and strife.  
  
Celebrían could admit to some selfishness on her part when she shooed her husband's apprentices away and swaddled the babe herself. There had been no child born to the valley since her own daughter, Arwen, and that was nearly two millennia ago. Though it had been many years since she last held her own children as such, her arms remembered as well as her heart, and it was second nature to rock Arahael with the same lullabies of the West her mother had once sang to her on her lips.  
  
Over the next few days she often found herself aiding Berethiel whenever she needed a moment's rest to recover her own strength. Berethiel's own mother had been one of Queen Fíriel's noblewomen who accompanied her from Gondor, yet she had sadly not survived Angmar's assaults along with her Lady. Thus, Berethiel had no kin left to her outside of far Gondor beyond, and Celebrían was pleased to offer what aid and companionship she could. To that end, on an eve when Aranarth was in council with his advisers and Elrond, she left Berethiel to doze in peace while she carried her son to the balcony at the far end of the hall - where Arahael could feel the sunlight on his brow and hear the constant laughter of the waterfalls, their mists close enough to kiss their skin in welcome. The summer evening was warm without being stifling, and the sky above them was an artist's work of gold and red as the setting sun set the crest of the mountains aflame. She breathed in deeply, glad for the timeless beauty of her home being unmarred by war and desolation once more.  
  
Yet, Arahael was more taken by the green gem she ever wore at her throat, rather than the glory of the sunset beyond. Bemused, Celebrían watched as he waved his impossibly small hands and blinked owlishly. He was not yet old enough to show his interest further, but his personality was already forceful enough so that she knew of his fascination, nonetheless.  
  
“This was a gift from my own mother,” Celebrían told Arahael as she rocked him back and forth, bringing the Elessar close enough for him to wrap his small hands around – stopping him only when he tried to bring the gem to his mouth in an infant's instinctive gesture. “The sunlight within its casing is from a young Sun, one that shone on the faces of your forefathers' forefathers – far before my own time, even.”  
  
_And_ _it is a light that_ _shall shine all the brighter for your descendants_ , the premonition glanced against her consciousness before fading away, as intangible as mist. She held her smile against the sensation, for a moment seeing only the bright grey of Arahael's eyes . . . the telling blackness of his crowning fuzz of hair. Lúthien had failed to leave her descendants for yet another generation, no matter that Berethiel herself was brown-haired and brown-eyed. The King's line would ever hold Lúthien's mark as a mirror, of this Celebrían was nearly certain.  
  
Thoughtfully, she looked down at the child she held, cradling him closer as she let the song of the water and the caress of the golden light take them both, before -  
  
She glanced over her shoulder with feeling a familiar brush of greeting against her spirit, and found Elrond leaning against one of the ornate pillars just before the balcony. His expression was soft, and his gaze glimmered with fondness – as if he had been staring at her for quite some time, and only just now let her know of his presence.  
  
Celebrían raised a brow, allowing a note of teasing to touch her expression and hide where she blushed as if she were still the same wide-eyed girl who had first looked on Imladris – and its Lord – in awe and wonder, now so many centuries ago.  
  
“What has you so enraptured?” she asked, unable to keep her voice as teasing as she first intended.  
  
“Need you ask?” he answered with a question of his own. Briefly, she caught a glimpse from her husband's mind – of the golden light turning the silver of her hair aflame, and the soft sort of beauty that came with her holding a child in her arms, bringing back memories of when their own children were young, and all the world a possibility before them.  
  
“You need not flatter me,” she replied, her words filling with warmth, “for mine is a heart already won.”  
  
“Then, wise would it be for me to see such a gift cherished, would you not agree?” Elrond returned, leaving his vigil to join her on the balcony.  
  
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, and rested his cheek against her own so that he could peer over her shoulder. Reflexively, she felt him look over the child with a healer's critical eye before his spirit ebbed, retreating to simply enjoy the moment - taking in the familiarity of her alongside the cherished privilege of holding child between them. She closed her eyes in a drowsy sort of contentment, completely lulled in that moment.  
  
In the lazy warmth that fell between them, she even entertained what a blessing another child of their own would be. Though two children were common enough amongst the Elves of Ennor, one child was the norm, and three children were rare indeed – anything more was almost unheard of, far as they were from the succoring glory of the West and the beginning of days when such large families were more commonplace. Yet, Celebrían stubbornly reflected, she was strong in spirit, born of all five of the First Kings as she was, and she believed that she could share her soul with yet another -  
  
\- she could feel a glimmer of Elrond's amusement against her spirit when he caught the turn of her thoughts. Nonetheless, there was affection alongside that amusement, and he was not yet telling her that such a child was an impossibility. Rather, she caught a moment's unguarded longing, and her spirit smiled against his triumphantly, turning with a sudden brightness in reply.  
  
_Our years are not yet so_ _great_ _that the idea of children should be far in every way,_ she could not help but say into his mind, catching the wayward thought that wryly reflected that the minds of the Eldar were _supposed_ to turn away from such desires after so many years together. To that end, she caught him imagining the surprise that would be on the faces of their children – especially the twins - and the thought had her smiling again, this time for another form of amusement entirely.  
  
_Perhaps . . ._ _after_ _Sauron is defeated, once and for all?_ She sent the thought to him, and instead of the moment's consideration and loving affirmation she expected to feel in reply, she instead felt Elrond turn strangely silent against her thoughts. She frowned, the barest of probes showing where he had not come to her merely for the joy of doing so. Something weighed upon him - something that had not been there before speaking to Aranarth and his council, and now . . .  
  
Waiting for him to find his words, she asked, “How did your council with Aranarth go?” out loud. She could feel his stare drop from the crown of the valley to once again look down on the infant she held. Arahael's eyes were drooping in contentment now, his small fist still held tightly over the Elessar.  
  
“As well as one first would think,” Elrond answered after a pause. “Their victory was won at great cost, leaving their rejoicing all but hollow in shape. It is still a hard blow for the pride of the North-kingdom - for they were once the jewel upon Elendil's crown, and now they will be nothing more than shadows in the forest, simply existing and surviving until the time their King comes again.”  
  
“It is a hard road Aranarth has chosen,” Celebrían agreed, thinking then about the tolls that had been exacted on Imladris, on Lindon, as well. Their numbers had waned so sharply with the end of the Second Age and the Battle of the Last Alliance, and now . . . she frowned before continuing, “But his path will bring his people peace, and his son will be raised in that peace.”  
  
“Yes,” Elrond said, and she felt that something in his mind shimmer, as if wanting to give way. “His son's health and happiness is something that Aranarth means to make the utmost certain of.”  
  
A heartbeat passed, but still he hesitated. Finally, Celebrían turned in his arms to look him in the eye, seeing a matching weight darkening the usual warmth of his gaze.  
  
“You are not telling me something outright,” she confronted him plain-faced, concern pulsing between their bond. “What is it that weighs upon you?”  
  
Elrond's eyes fell away from her, looking down to Arahael once more. And, just after she caught a whisper of determination and decision from him, he said, “The Dúnedain will not resettle Fornost. They have not the numbers nor the power to reclaim their former glory, and they will instead seek out the shield of the forests to cloak them from the eyes of the Enemy.”  
  
She inclined her head. “Much as we first thought they would,” she said. “Aranarth has been veering down that path since the day he put his father's crown aside.”  
  
“And yet,” Elrond continued, “such a path is a perilous one, even when walked to ensure the safety and the survival of the Dúnedain as a whole. They are not yet wholly settled, and to raise a child in the rugged ways of the wild while every aspect of Sauron's being is bent on the complete destruction of Isildur's line . . .”  
  
A hush seemed to fall over the valley as she understood what he would say next. So many things now made sense - how Berethiel welcomed her presence and aid with a weight to her eyes and a forced sort of acceptance about her spirit . . . how Aranarth held his son as if counting down every moment until a farewell . . . A farewell, for -  
  
“They wish to foster Arahael in Imladris,” she stated outright. She spoke the words bluntly as their meaning set in, trying to imagine the same fate for one of her own children. She found it a hard reality to swallow, even in idea only.  
  
“Yes,” Elrond answered just as plainly. “For Men, such is a common thing amongst the Great Houses as a way to solidify alliances and deepen the wisdoms of their children. Arahael will be safe here - for Sauron can never touch Imladris without the power of the One Ring to triumph over Vilya's might. And, not only will Arahael's well-being be assured, but he will grow in the wisdom and knowledge of the Elves, and someday use that learning to lead his people in his turn.”  
  
And yet, when Arahael at last married, and became a father himself . . . she blinked, but saw not only Arahael as a happy child growing and learning and _loving_ in their halls, but after . . . for many years . . . for _centuries_ to come . . . She frowned, and held a hand to her temple as a glimmer of her mother's foresight fell upon her, letting her _see_ . . .  
  
“Yet, not only shall Arahael Aranarth's son come of age here, loved as if he were one of our own,” Celebrían whispered. “It is Arahael's son . . . and his son . . . and _his_ son's son . . . then his every descendant thereafter, until the promised return of the King. You mean to watch each of these children grow and live and _die . . ._ Husband, it is already such a blow you set upon yourself with merely so close a _friendship_ with the Elendili, but now you seek to _twist_ that blade in such a way . . .”  
  
She drew in her next breath sharply, feeling suddenly unsteady upon her feet. For years Elrond had stubbornly set his path alongside his brother's heirs, seeing them as kindred even when such bonds of old were but distant murmurs amongst the Dúnedain – fae-tales told to wide eyed children before they were sent on to bed and dreams. There was grief to be known in mere friendships with mortal-kind – this even she herself had learned from a relatively young age. But to _raise_ a mortal child in love, over and over and _over_ again . . .  
  
It was no easy task he set upon himself – and upon her, both for the grief she too would face, and support in him in turn. Celebrían sighed, even as she held Arahael that much tighter in her arms, as if by her will alone she could shield him from both the natural course of his mortality and the dark forces even now seeking his soul.  
  
“I would not agree to Aranarth's request without first gaining your blessing,” Elrond said, following the waves in her spirit as they rippled from the disturbance of his proposal. His voice was quiet, but a telling strength laid underneath his apparent ease – his mind was already made, and though he would do nothing without her approval, he nonetheless _hoped_ for the answer she would give.  
  
“Allow me a day's time to consider?” she finally asked. She needed to take a step back, to think clearly, without the tempestuous rush of her emotions influencing her down either path set before them. “I would not make Aranarth wait longer than that,” she assured him.  
  
Elrond inclined his head. He would speak no more to sway her one way or the other, instead allowing her know her own mind, and form her own decision. When she fell silent and turned her gaze back to the final death of the sun above, he embraced her once more, holding both her and the child she carried without words. The shape of his place against her spirit was quiet with a deceiving tranquility, and she leaned in against him as if she could somehow make his peace and determination her own.  
  
Then, she blinked, and watched the sun give way to the stars.  
  
  
  
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.  
  
The next day, she sat with Berethiel and her ladies in the gardens, and tried to listen to the easy chatter of the women, rather than the restless spin of her own thoughts.  
  
Helping with the distraction of her thoughts was one Hobbit by the name of Fallogrim Took. Though she had met the Halfling brothers who first settled the Shire - now nearly four-hundred years ago - Fallogrim was the first of the Little People she had known in any deeper friendship. When they first mustered their forces to march against the Witch-king, the Shirefolk too had wanted to give their arms to protect their lands – no matter that Aranarth's father, the King at that time, had tried to dissuade them from their tribute. He had been outmoved by the brave Hobbits, however, and had at last allowed fifty of their archers to join his own. Besides Fallogrim – their leader and spokesman – none of the Halflings had survived their defense of the North, and Fallogrim had yet to return to his own folk, nor did he give any inclination of doing so – saying instead that he preferred the peace and healing of Imladris over the stares and accusations that would be his to own if he ever brought himself to return to his smial in the Shire.  
  
But Fallogrim was excellent with tales, and he was most delighted to have a child in the valley – one of the only downfalls about Imladris, he had been known to say, was the absence of little ones constantly underfoot and amusing their elders with their antics. The years seemed to fade away from the hobbit, and he seemed once more like the brave little warrior Celebrían had first met, rather than the steadily aging elder who sought peace and sanctuary within their halls.  
  
Now, the old hobbit was happily bouncing Arahael on his knee, and telling Berethiel's ladies – and, more importantly to him, their children – about Lord Glorfindel and Prince Eärnur's final encounter with the Witch-king of Angmar. Fallogrim was building up to the Elf-lord's prophesy, mimicking the black tones of the Nazgûl-lord as he wilted in the face of Glorfindel's Valar given light – much to the delighted gasp of both the children and the ladies of his audience.  
  
Somewhere behind her, Celebrían was aware of Erestor's subtle criticism of the hobbit's rendition, while Glorfindel simply smiled and said that it had happened exactly as Fallogrim said – no more and no less. Their well-worn teasing would normally have drawn Celebrían to turn and give her own words in jest, but her mind was too full for merriment that day, and she rather found her attention turning to Berethiel time and time again.  
  
For the most part, Berethiel was silent as to what her husband had requested – though Celebrían was aware of a new softness about the woman, understanding now the way she watched her interaction with her son as if weighing, as if making sure that she had made the correct decision in her own mind. There was a sadness to Berethiel's gaze, but a strange contentment too – one that was put to ease by the certainty that she was making the best choice by her son, no matter the pain she would bring upon herself by doing so.  
  
And so, when Celebrían could take the silence no more, she said, “You would be welcome to stay in Imladris with your son.”  
  
Berethiel's smile was sad in reply, but there was a softness about her expression. Though the woman was but a babe when compared to the great span of her own years, Celebrían nonetheless felt as a youth before a wise-woman when Berethiel said: “I knew my duty when I married my husband, and my duty is to him as much as it is to what remains of our people. I would not leave his side when he has need of me there.”  
  
Celebrían frowned, and looked over to the babe Fallogrim now looked directly at as he reached the climax of his tale, feeling as a thief with her doing so. The idea was anathema to her; for with the endless days of the Elves, very few of those days were spent with their children as _children_ , and to lose but moments of those years was a crippling thought, so foreign as it was.  
  
“This is a decision I know you would make yourself if it was put to you,” Berethiel whispered, even though she had no insight into the innermost workings of her mind. “For the safety of your children, you would do anything needed. And to have the likes of the Enemy himself with his Eye turned in hatred to your child more so than any other being in Middle-earth . . .”  
  
Celebrían was silent at the thought, remembering Sauron when he was simply Annatar, beautiful and cloaked in trickery and guile. Even then, his hatred had burned when it was nothing more than his bruised pride underneath her mother's authority in Ost-in-edhil. To imagine the full brunt of his hatred and power turned upon a child – _her_ child . . . She frowned, a pain in her heart for Berethiel and her quiet strength in reply to the unfortunate need of such a decision.  
  
“If you agree to aid my family, I will stay with Arahael until he is weaned, and those months will be precious to me,” Berethiel continued, looking over to her son with so much tenderness in her gaze that it hurt to see. “After, the forests of Rhudaur are not so far that we may not return to observe the Solstices in Imladris – or, perhaps, we shall make a yearly trip to celebrate his begetting days with him. Either way, my son will not grow up ignorant of me, and to know that he _shall_ grow - safe and loved in a haven greater than any I could create and _protect_ with my own two hands . . . No. There is no greater gift you may grant a mother than this assurance – this _certainty_.”  
  
_F_ _ar off yet is his doom, and not by the hands of any man shall he fall_ _!_ Fallogrim proclaimed in a great, commanding tone, and Arahael looked up at the hobbit with wide, solemn eyes, as if the infant understood the words that were spoken over his head.  
  
For a moment, Celebrían was distracted, and when she looked back to Berethiel, the human woman had leaned forward to place a hand over her own. The tips of her fingers were white, and her eyes were strangely shining in the bright light of noontide.  
  
“I know this to be a great a task I ask of you,” Berethiel continued. “You love my son already - I can see that much in your eyes. And to ask you to love him all the more so before the days of Mankind force you to give him up . . . If the Valar are kind, I pray that I shall not outlive my children, and to ask another to take that same pain upon their shoulders . . . My mind simply cannot comprehend the price demanded of immortality, but I am aware of the toll I am asking you to pay. I understand if the price is too great, and we shall bear you no ill will for your decision. And yet . . .”  
  
Unerringly, Berethiel spoke outright what had been as a disquieting thought to Celebrían since Elrond first told her of Aranarth's request. Even so, she fell quiet for a moment, as if searching for her words. Celebrían tilted her own head in return, considering what she could possibly say in reply to grant the mortal woman some peace for her decision, when -  
  
\- Fallogrim came over with Arahael in hand, the infant giving a toothless smile as he was returned to his mother's arms. The hobbit then sat down in one of the plush chairs next to Berethiel, smiling grandly all the while.  
  
“Your son has a fine ear for tales, my queen,” Fallogrim proclaimed – he still having little liking for the title _Chieftess_. Over time, Berethiel had stayed her tongue in correcting him, knowing that her words would simply fall on deaf ears. “There is a bard-heart in this wee lad, mark my words. And what better a place shall that gift be encouraged to grow but in fair Rivendell?”  
  
“Anárion had a liking, and a talent, for giving lays alongside his harp. Perhaps Arahael has a bit of his forefather's soul within him? Though,” this Berethiel smiled to say, her eyes sparkling mischievously, “there are those here who would know of Anárion better than I.”  
  
Celebrían felt the hobbit's eyes turn to her in curiosity, and a true smile touched her mouth for her memories, drawn deep from the long halls of her mind. “Anárion did indeed have a talent for music,” she affirmed, remembering the kind, gentle man who had been the peace of a forest pool where his brother Isildur was all the strength of the moon upon the tides. “My husband – though he was not my husband at the time – had a harp that was crafted by Maglor Fëanorian himself, and Anárion would take his turn in the Hall of Fire with our own minstrels, singing the old songs from lost Númenor. I still remember those evenings with fondness, and appreciation for his gift.”  
  
Fallogrim's eyes glittered at the mention of such a harp, as if he were already contemplating how to phrase a request to see such a hallowed antique. “And that is the true magic of this place,” he said with warmth and fondness in his voice. “It is the _memory_ held here, and in any elven-home, truly. For, even if we are merely mortals passing through, there is a gift to be had in thinking that we touched something timeless, and, perhaps, aided in shaping that time during our stay.”  
  
“You would be hard to forget, Master Hobbit, no matter how many ages of the world passed,” Celebrían said warmly. “The strength of heart you and yours bore humbled our own, and long shall we speak of it.”  
  
Fallogrim inclined his head, even as his eyes shadowed with a sadness that not even the peace of Imladris could wholly chase away. “Perhaps the lad here may write a song about it when he is older,” he said, a forced levity to his voice that nonetheless turned real as he spoke. “I'll have to tell him about his grandfather's – and his father's valiance, at that – it is the job of such stories, to aid those of us who do not have immortal memories, you know.”  
  
“And it is a blessing to share hand in hand with those who _do_ have such memories,” Berethiel added, the woman's warm eyes finding hers with the unerring accuracy of an arrow. “We are grateful for their keeping our loved ones close when even we cannot, no matter how such a burden must weigh after so many years.”  
  
“Quite right you are, my queen,” Fallogrim put his hands together for saying so. “Quite right indeed! As I hope the tale of the Hobbit who held Maglor Fëanorian's harp to be a much remembered one! Say,” the hobbit turned to Berethiel for a moment upon seeing Lindir and Elrond walk into the gathering – just who he needed to see. “Might I borrow your little one for a moment more? It is all the more difficult to deny the request of a guest when they hold a child in hand, you know, and this Took intends to use every card he has to play.”  
  
Celebrían could not help but laugh at his words, mirroring the fond look Berethiel too turned on the hobbit. Shaking her head in bemusement, she rose to her feet, saying, “If his mother is amiable, you may take the babe for sake of merely doing so, but I shall fetch you the harp now – and perhaps you can then delight us all with a song.”  
  
“Well,” the hobbit flushed good-naturedly, “I am no Maglor Fëanorian, but if my audience demands it of me . . .”  
  
“Then consider such a request placed,” Celebrían was happy to say, and Fallogrim blushed anew.  
  
Before turning away, she looked down on the happily smiling babe Berethiel still held, feeling a pang fill her for the way Berethiel touched his cheek as if memorizing its curve. She stared for a moment, and was able to feel Berethiel's gaze follow her in return as she left the gardens behind. The consideration in her eyes then lingered as the warmth of summer, welcome after winter, and impossible to turn away.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
After Fallogrim's impromptu concert in the garden – which soon deteriorated into tales as Fallogrim shared about his learning to play the harp and fiddle in the Shire, and even Elrond was moved to relate how Elros was slow to pick up any instrument that was set upon him, even with Maglor himself as an instructor – Berethiel retired indoors once more. Still recovering from the complications of her labor, she tired easy, and while her ladies helped her bathe from the warmth of the summer and seek repose during the midday, Celebrían took Arahael to change and ready him for his own nap. She hummed softly to herself as she did so, once again giving voice to the old lullabies she had sang to her own children without conscious thought, letting the simplicity of the task take her until she felt a presence halt at the doorway, and linger.  
  
Arwen was as soft of step as any full-blooded Elf, and her eyes were bright and gleaming – holding the starlight as if she walked the land before the rise of the Sun and Moon in an uncanny reflection of Lúthien herself. Celebrían smiled in greeting, not needing to see her daughter to be aware of her presence, and welcomed her into the nursery with a wave of her hand.  
  
Arwen hesitated, but a moment later Celebrían felt her stand by her side. She simply looked down at the child, little inclined to pick him up and coo over him as most in the valley seemed eager to do. Celebrían watched the thoughtful twist to her brow, the way the full shape of her mouth pursed in a thin line, and wondered at her mind.  
  
“You look at the child as if he shall rise up and bite you,” Celebrían remarked. In direct contrast to her words, Arahael cooed out a nonsense string of noises as she went to wrap him in his blanket once more.  
  
“I fear no such thing,” Arwen replied after a moment. Yet her eyes were still locked on the child, and she gave a delicate frown in reply to his smiles. “Only . . . I have been dreaming again,” she admitted, her voice hardly more than a whisper.  
  
Celebrían inclined her head, ready to provide a listening ear for whatever was weighing upon her. Arwen was the most fey of all her children, and she had inherited the Sight – from her father or her grandmother, Celebrían could not be sure – in part. Yet, Arwen's visions did not come easily to her, and she had long been working with Galadriel in Lothlórien to control her premonitions through use of the Mirror – for meditation and dreams did not sharpen and refine her knowings as they did for Elrond. Ever did Arwen's visions come as half shapes and riddles – more so than most who dealt with the double-edged blade of the Sight – and her wispy knowings of the future were often a matter that frustrated her.  
  
“Did you dream about the boy?” Celebrían gently prodded, understanding the look Arwen bore for the child in part. Arahael nonetheless smiled a gummy smile, oblivious to the tone of the conversation above him, and raised his arms up to be held – not by her, Celebrían wryly noted, but by her daughter.  
  
Arwen looked down, and subtly stepped to the side, removing herself from the baby's limited field of vision. “I would not say anything, only that I heard from Elladan that it is Aranarth's wish that Arahael be fostered here. He is amiable to the decision, and hopeful for your agreeing to their wishes.”  
  
Her sons had hardly dwelt in Imladris since the Witch-king's defeat for aiding Aranarth and his people with settling in the forest, eager as they were to help the Men learn the ways of the wild in all things. Elladan's heart in particular was closely aligned with the sons of Men, and for his deep friendship with Aranarth, Celebrían was not surprised for his knowing what few others knew.  
  
“It has been suggested, and your father and I are weighing that option,” Celebrían answered truthfully, turning to hide the frown she bore in reply to Arwen's expression. “Your father has seen nothing that he has mentioned to me about Arahael's future, however. We are making our decision with only our own thoughts as counsel.”  
  
“It is even more difficult to foresee events connected to one's own future, and twice as untrustworthy are those visions,” Arwen admitted after a pause. “Adar would not have mentioned any such glimpses, even if he did see them . . . And yet, I have seen – I have _dreamed_ , which you know to be rare for me . . . This child shall do Adar's heart a great harm one day, and I fear . . .”  
  
Arwen faltered, and had to pause to recover her words. There was a true source of conflicting pain and discomfort upon her face – for while Celebrían had never felt the lesser in her daughter's heart, it was true that Arwen favored her father in all things, being alike to him in both talents and temperament. Theirs was a bond that ever warmed Celebrían's heart to see, and she then understood Arwen's reservations for the shield they were.  
  
“There is ever an unspoken harm that comes with loving those of mortal blood,” Celebrían said softly, thinking to guess the root of her daughter's visions. “This is not the first time your father will love with such a parting in mind, and I believe that it shall not be the last.”  
  
Nonetheless, Arwen shook her head. Her frown only deepened. “I do not speak merely of the bite of mortality, Naneth. What I see is in shadow . . . so much of it that I hesitate to speak; but it is a hurt more so than that of death this child shall inflict. Only, I should say that _h_ _e_ shall not, but rather, one born from his line . . .” She swallowed, and had to try again to find her words. “No mere sundering of deathlessness and mortality do I see, but rather, a grievous wound of spirit that shall be remembered err all the ages of the world pass; one so greatly inflicted that even the peace and the healing of the Uttermost West will do but naught to sooth that pain.”  
  
Celebrían blinked, taken back by the forceful cast of Arwen's words. This was a vision that had her truly concerned – and clearly troubled. She looked, and saw that her daughter clenched her slender hands into fists. The delicate line of her brow was furrowed, and there was a fierce gleam to the brightness of her eyes - as if she could vanquish whatever harm she foresaw by merely the strength of her gaze alone.  
  
“You should send him back with his folk,” Arwen said lowly. “Leave the Men to theirs and we to our own, for much will then be safeguarded that way.”  
  
“Someday, this shall not be our land, but theirs,” Celebrían said gently. “With every passing year the time of the Firstborn wanes, and to the Secondborn shall our inheritance soon pass.”  
  
Arwen's frown only deepened at her words, and Celebrían took a moment to collect her thoughts by leaning down to scoop Arahael up in her arms once more. He was still smiling and happily cooing, his eyes bright as he tried to stick his thumb in his mouth, while only succeeding in gumming on the side of his still curled fist.  
  
“You have never known the pain of mortal passing,” Celebrían at last found a path for her words to walk. “And while a pain it is, a great joy there is for watching the bright days of Mankind as they wax and wane. There is a strength to be found in mortal-folk, joy too, and while our association with the Dúnedain has shown us the worst of Mankind, it has also revealed the best, and little would we trade the sweet for dissatisfaction with the bitter – for if all of life's crossroads were decided with such a view in mind, then no path would you ever walk, but rather, remain still in your place.”  
  
Still Arwen's eyes were troubled, but she looked to Arahael now, allowing herself to truly see the child for the first. Gently, Celebrían bid of her, “What do you see for this child, and this child alone?”  
  
Arwen was silent for a moment. She then reached out to gently touch the baby's brow, her eyes softening as the boy tried to reach up to curiously grab her hand as it passed. “Joy,” she replied honestly. “Strength and peace and light, though nothing more specific than that.”  
  
Celebrían inclined her head. “And here that light may be allowed to grow, so that someday it may shine all the brighter for his people. Would I rather this burden fall to some other, and a simpler course be allowed to me and mine? Yes . . . perhaps. And yet, this path is now here before me, and I find that I cannot turn him away for fear of some far off, indefinable pain,” Celebrían found her own decision made even as she spoke it aloud. She held Arahael tighter with accepting her own mind, and felt her arms turn sure in their hold.  
  
Arwen's frown lessened, but there was still a shadow behind the growing acceptance in her gaze. She had yet to move her hand away from Arahael's brow, instead moving to gently touch the soft fuzz of his black hair and curiously trace the curved shape of his ear with her fingertips. Happily, the infant squirmed from the ticklish touch.  
  
And Celebrían reached over to tilt her daughter's chin up, wishing to meet her eyes. “Never fear embracing love for the pain of suffering loss for that love,” she said lowly – but strongly, feeling as if she shaped more than Arwen's future with Arahael with her speaking so. Her words were touched with a low, unsummoned power, and she strangely felt her eyes turn hot, as with the onset of tears. “If there is one lesson I can impart upon you as your mother, it is this one I would most dearly give, and know delight for your learning.”  
  
She leaned over to kiss her daughter's brow, holding the gesture for a long moment as she felt the tension leave Arwen's stance as with an exhale. She still looked wary when she looked down on Arahael, but there was nonetheless a softness in her gaze - an acceptance.  
  
“Allow me to hold him?” Arwen at last offered, finding her speech to be stronger with each word spoken. “And please, do not hesitate to tell me what I am doing wrong.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The evening came with another golden-red sunset setting the crown of the mountains ablaze. The summer birds were singing sweetly, and on one of the balconies beyond their own, a flutist had taken to trilling with the winged folk in order to sing the sun to sleep until the morrow.  
  
Pensively, she stood with her hands delicately braced against the railing before her. She looked down to the gardens below, where she could even now see Aranarth and Berethiel sitting with their son beside one of the fountains, not looking to the glory of the sunset around them, but rather, at the child they held between them – a softness to the moment the small family stole that Celebrían could not look away from, not even for the glorious drama playing out in the heavens above her.  
  
She felt a twisting in her chest at the sight, but her pain was more the pain of acceptance – the rush before a fall – and she swallowed it away to rest as an unacknowledged fluttering in her chest, unlooked for and little more examined beyond that. The Valar had placed a hard, strange road before Aranarth and his people, but he was rising to meet his days with bravery and good cheer, and she would learn from the mortal, and do the same as well as she could.  
  
“So, you have made your decision?” she heard Elrond's voice speak into her ear, uncannily following the train of her thoughts with his speaking.  
  
She looked behind her, not having heard him approach, but then understanding the peace in her spirit to be more than the decision she had reached in her mind.  
  
“I think that I made it from the first,” Celebrían confessed, a sad smile touching her mouth with her words. She felt his arms settle about her from behind once more, and she leaned into his embrace with the ease of long familiarity. “Only, I did not wish for it to be so.”  
  
“Celebrían -” she heard Elrond sigh against her hair, and she turned in his embrace to look him in the eye.  
  
“You do not have to speak so as to convince me,” she assured him. “It is the right thing to do, and more than that, I _wish_ to aid them in whatever way we may. Arahael is a beautiful child, and my heart is already quite taken by him. You know that I love his parents, as well, and I . . . I will not be afraid of that love. No matter where it may lead.”  
  
She sighed with her final words, leaning forward to rest her brow against his own. She felt him touch the side of her face, the caress passing over her ear and into her hair, and she leaned into the tangibility of his affection, feeling as a tree rooted in the deep earth for the languid contentment then filling her bones. She raised her hands to rest atop his shoulders, quite comfortable with the idea of staying like so for an entire age of the world, at least.  
  
“Have you foreseen anything regarding the child?” she at last asked. When she spoke, the light of the setting sun had turned red above them, setting the rim of the valley aflame. She let him see her earlier conversation with Arwen, and felt him turn the memory over for a moment before understanding set in.  
  
“I've seen nothing more than shadows, half formed and impossible to interpret clearly,” Elrond told her honestly. If he was troubled by their daughter's premonition, it was a worry deeply hidden, and she exhaled, content with his answer. “Such foresight grows all the more dim and strange as the final days of our people come upon this land; this you have long since known as well as I.”  
  
That she did, she reflected. Her hands flexed against his shoulders as he ran a soothing hand through her hair. She made a humming noise in the back of her throat, content, no matter the shape of her reflections.  
  
“There will be many such wounds to heal when the end finally comes,” she finally said aloud. “It becomes hard to tell one harm from the other as the days stretch on.”  
  
“So, there is but little risk in adding but a few more to our days?” Elrond finished for her wryly.  
  
“That was not my precise meaning,” Celebrían returned, a matching smile touching her mouth. “Perhaps I meant to say that you will not – I will not – have to face those wounds alone. And that in of itself makes any dark possibility for the future bearable.” She felt his arms tighten about her at her words, and her spirit felt pleasantly cradled against his own. She let her eyes fall shut in contentment. “Arahael and his line will bring many blessings with him; it is just a matter of judging them to be worth more than the inevitable loss to come.”  
  
"And you do?" Elrond nonetheless paused to make sure, and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze.  
  
"I do," she made her vow, feeling the truth of her words as a lining in her bones.  
  
“I will tell Aranarth, then,” Elrond inclined his head. She felt him look over her shoulder to where the small mortal family was sitting down below. Arahael was growing fussy, and even his frustrated cries were endearing as they cut through the beauty of the evening.  
  
She turned towards the sound, bemused as his parents moved to do what they could to sooth him. “I miss those days,” she confessed out loud. "I did not think to experience the cries of a child again - not until we were grandparents, perhaps, or," she gave a wry smile, her fanciful wishing for another child of their own having been met - and answered - in the most unforeseen of ways.  
  
"Something tells me that we shall find our halls to be all the more quiet after the King returns and our time in Middle-earth comes to an end," Elrond still reflected. "Perhaps . . ." he let his voice tapper off, and she could not help the shape of her smile in reply.  
  
“I shall still hold you to that vow, Peredhel,” her eyes sparkled as she said so. Playfully, she tugged on one of his braids. "So mind the words you next say."  
  
“Merely would I say that I look forward to my path with you, no matter who joins us on that path,” Elrond settled for saying. Yet when he leaned down to kiss her she felt as a youth stealing a moment with her new love, sweet as the heat was that still filled her veins, no matter the many years between them.  
  
She smiled against his mouth when their kiss ended, and said, "That felt like a vow to me," with a brightly considering expression upon her face.  
  
"Then, a vow it is," Elrond agreed.  
  
Happily, she kissed him again, pulling away only when Arahael's cries turned louder below. She sighed fondly, and said, "Give them this moment, and then we shall tell them?" Someday, even memories of a fussy child would be cherished ones, and Aranarth and Berethiel deserved every one they could claim in the time they had allowed to them.  
  
Elrond inclined his head. "That would do well," he agreed, and pulled her close once more. She went to him willingly, and nestled into his embrace as she thought about the strange ways of time and fate. Perhaps, at the edge of her consciousness, a glimmer of her daughter's forewarnings remained, but in these shadowed days there was not a decision that could be made to avoid all such ill outcomes for the years ahead.  
  
Rather, all they could do was to take those years one day at a time, and find what joy in those days they could. Below, she could hear Berethiel's full laughter in reply to the silly faces Aranarth made to end their child's fussing, and her heart warmed at the sound, knowing that they took what they could while they could - and, in such, there was a lesson to be learned, and benefited from.  
  
So, for that moment, Celebrían leaned against her husband and thought of nothing more than the setting sunlight on her face and the warmth of the valley around her, content to leave room in her heart for nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aranarth** : Son of Arvedui, the last King of Arnor. (Arnor: the lands Elendil settled on the western side of the Misty Mountains after the fall of Númenor, and thus, the sister-kingdom to Gondor in the south-east.) After his father's death, and the destruction of the North-kingdom, Aranarth put aside his father's crown and called himself Chieftain of the Dúnedain so that his people could live in safety and security as the Rangers of the North until the return of their King - Aragorn, who was prophesied at Aranarth's birth. Aranarth is the twelve times great-grandfather of Aragorn, and the combined heir of both Isildur and Anárion, sons of Elendil, heir of Elros.
> 
>  **Arahael** : Son of Aranarth and an unnamed mother. He was fostered in Rivendell from a very young age until his twentieth birthday, as was custom with the Chieftains of the Dúnedain all the way down to Aragorn - and thus, the main content of this story.
> 
>  **Arnor vs. Angmar** : In the year 1300 of the Third Age, the Nazgûl reappeared in Middle-earth, and the Captain of the Nine took up residence in Angmar - the northernmost part of the Misty Mountains, with his kingdom spilling onto both the eastern and western side of the range. He made war on Arnor soon after and was not defeated until 1975 - when the combined might of Arnor, Lindon, Rivendell, those Galadriel could send from Lórien, as well as Prince Eärnur's might from Gondor all banded together to see him defeated. Unfortunately, the battle came at great cost, and Arnor was left in ruins, even after their victory.
> 
>  **Glorfindel's Prophesy** : When the Witch-king was finally forced to flee, Glorfindel foretold that his defeat would come by the hands of 'no man'. We all know who later fulfills those words . . . ;)
> 
>  **Concerning Hobbits** : The Shire was founded in the year 1600 by a pair of Fallohide brothers, and they beseeched King Arvedui to let them fight for the safety of their home alongside the Big Folk. After much convincing, Arvedui finally welcomed archers from the Shire, but Tolkien himself wrote that not a one ever returned. So, my OC Fallogrim Took is not breaking that rule, per say - _he did not return to the Shire_ , to follow the exact letter of the text. However, I wanted to foreshadow another brave half-Took who made Rivendell his home out of hope for peace and healing, and I could not pass this opportunity aside.


	75. "our share of night to bear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil/Canonical-wife & Thráin I || Prompt: _Consume_
> 
> Or, alternately: Thranduil vs. the Dwarves of Erebor, Round I. This fits into my Thranduil/Greenwood arch of fics from chapters (in chronological order) 50, 57, 73, 58, and 66. It is also based in the same part of the Third Age as the last chapter, and carries on some of the Durin's-Folk/First-of-the-Seven-Rings themes from chapter 24. The pieces of Sindarin history are from everywhere in this beast, really. ;)
> 
> But, that said, this plot is one of the oldest ideas in my notebook, and one I am finally at a place where I can share - as I have been writing this piece, and the next update it leads into, for seemingly forever now. There are quite a few notes at the bottom to explain what is book-canon and what is my personal head-canon, so if you have any questions, odds are they will be answered there.
> 
> That said, I thank you all for reading, and hope that you enjoy. :)

**Consume  
  
** It begun as an ill whisper in the wind; a trembling in the trees; a rippling upon the water. The land hushed, as if holding a breath, it mourned, and all they could do was hold a hand to the trees and wonder what new evil had awakened in the lands beyond their own.  
  
Disquieting was such a whisper, for not even five years had passed since the Witch-king's final flight from the ruin of Arnor, and now, for this new shadow to touch their eaves in warning. . .  
  
It did not take long for news to reach them from Lothlórien, revealing that the long unheard from King of Moria had finally delved too deep for the _mithril_ they so prized, and thus awakened the evil they had long known to slumber there. The Valarukaur had opened his eyes of flame, and taken his vengeance for his sleep being so disturbed by the unthinking axes of Durin's line.  
  
When he read the news in one of Celeborn's letters – explaining how warnings that Galadriel had placed in the time of _Narvi_ were set aside when wisdom fled Moria's king, and detailing the sad fate of the many who fled the woods of Lothlórien for being so close to that awakened evil - Thranduil first thought the woes of Durin's folk to be far and beyond his own. He had paid little heed to where the Longbeards would settle next – assuming that they would seek out their kin to the west in Ered Luin, or settle far to the east in the mountains of Rhûn, where the ancient clans of Ironfists and Stiffbeards had awakened and settled. What he did not expect, however, was for the bold workings of Thráin, son of Náin, son of Durin VI, to make his home in the silent, solitary peak that was but leagues away from their own forest home – eager as Thráin was to settle a new land for his people, rather than one long mined and already picked through for its riches.  
  
For some years Thráin's people had been delving in the mountain and carving out their kingdom of stone. Already there were Men of Rhovanion making their way north and settling in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, eager for the wealth and trade there was to be had with so close an alliance with the Gonnhirrim – for never did Dwarves grow their own food or spin their own wool, and they were known to be generous in trade with those who supported them in turn.  
  
Thranduil allowed the Dwarves to pass through his realm on the Forest-road that the Northmen themselves used, so long as they paid their tolls to the Carrock and his own wardens for their defense of the ever darkening wood. The shadow covering the Woodland-realm had fluctuated madly with the trouble Angmar was causing from further north, but since the removal of the Nazgûl to Mordor that darkness had stayed a hand in its spreading. And yet, with the Nine accounted for and Saruman's ruling of the dark spirit inhabiting Dol Goldur now proved false . . . ever the more so did the answer to their woes seem apparent, yet few were brave enough to speak that dread name aloud, even so.  
  
Soon would the White Wizard return from his wanderings in the East, and then Thranduil could beseech the Wise on behalf of his people once more. And yet, until then . . .  
  
Until then, they carried on much as they ever had, little bothered by and little bothering their new neighbors. That, however, came to a sudden end when he had the dubious privilege of being _summoned_ to Erebor by letter. They wished for the Forest-king to pay his respects to the newly anointed King Under the Mountain as an equal in sovereignty between their races . . . and not the other way around, with the newly throned king seeking out the one long settled in his place and power.  
  
Yet, petty indeed would it look for the longer established Woodland-realm to turn down such a summons out of wish for the Heir of Durin to first seek out their goodwill, and so, it was with a clipped manner and annoyed disposition that Thranduil readied his family and foremost advisers to respond to the Dwarf's offer of hospitality as a _gracious_ ally would.  
  
Though he agreed to the invitation, he could not say that he did so gladly, and his mood was sour as he rose and readied himself for the journey.  
  
“I could ignore the slight when Thráin sent Víli his brother to negotiate use of the Forest-road and rights to harvesting the trees as fuel for their forges,” Thranduil muttered as he did up the fastenings of his overcoat. “For the _King_ was then busy with his own, and he had his people's welfare to see to before he could worry himself for such a _trifle_ thing as gracious relations with his neighbors. And yet, now - ”  
  
One of the fastenings snared, and he tugged on it with an annoyed gesture. Beyond him, where Calelassel was straightening her crown of twining yew and flowering hazel, his wife raised a brow at the cross shape of his words. Against his spirit, her presence was as a gentle ripple upon the eddy of a deep current, and she instinctively set her fëa against his own to sooth.  
  
He caught a distant thought in her mind, remembering their first days reigning together – how he had faltered in knowing his father's people, his father's realm, and spent many such mornings venting his fears and frustrations to her. Ever a strength for him, she had calmly bolstered his confidence with her belief and furthered his learning with her own wisdoms – for she had known his father's realm for centuries longer than he. He had thought his love impossible to further when first he wed her, but in those early days his appreciation and affection had grown in leaps and bounds as they each settled into their new places. Now, this was a tradition that had yet to give way, even these many centuries later.  
  
The fastening at last slipped into place, and Thranduil tried to hold onto the pleasant shape of those memories as he continued, “It is not enough that they awakened such an evil in their own land, but now, to come here with that same summoning force worn so boldly upon their King's finger, and _dare_ to settle so closely to - ”  
  
“ - if your people were displaced, would fear of an ill approving neighbor keep you from seeking out the best possible home for those in your following?” Calelassel gently interrupted, raising a pointed brow in reply to his words. “The memories you personally hold are but old tales to the Dwarves, and they would see no difference in settling next to your folk as they would beside Thingol himself.”  
  
Thranduil narrowed his gaze as he met her eyes through her looking glass.“It is still an insult,” he uttered crisply, “to be _summoned_ as some paltry bit of nobility to pay homage to a _liege-lord_ -”  
  
“ - they wish for us to see what they have built,” Calelassel again returned, a wry twist upon her mouth. “After recovering what they so grievously lost – be it even by their own hand - I do not see the insult in that. Eagerness, perhaps, but no insult.”  
  
“They wish to _boast_ over what they have built, perhaps,” Thranduil retorted. “That I would believe of the _Naugrim_ in its entirety.”  
  
Another fastening proved to be quite behind his ability to nimby secure, and with a bemused glittering to her eyes, Calelassel rose from her place to come to his aid.  
  
Letting out an agitated breath, he let his wife help him, ignoring her amused teasing, saying that it had been years since she last had to help Legolas with such - let alone her husband who was thousands of years older than even _she._ Thranduil let loose a frustrated breath at her thoughts. He then inhaled deeply, trying to calm the disquieting course of his own mind, even now reflecting on the ever darkening shape amidst their own trees, stemming from the evil taint of Dol Guldur. Too closely did this fear arrive side by side with their trials against the Witch-king . . . with the resurfacing of one of the long unseen Valaraukar . . . with the renewed activity of the Nine as they even now laid siege to Minas Ithil in the south . . . it was connected, _all of it_ , and the Dwarves of Durin, along with their Ring of Power, had unconsciously given heed to the growing shadow in every way. He had not the gift of foresight, but his relation to Thingol did grant a whisper of knowing to his veins, and he _knew_ . . .  
  
“Well placed are these fears,” Calelassel whispered as she finished with the last fastening. She ran her hands down the front of his chest to smooth the wrinkles in his overcoat, affection in her fingertips. “Yet, ill would it be for you to allow one fear to affect another,” still she quietly counseled. “Thráin will see only the one, and fail to understand the other; he will see only insult, and take insult in return.” And, she left unspoken, a Dwarf left brewing in insult was never a wise neighbor to keep – this he knew as few others alive would know.  
  
Thranduil covered her hands with his own, stilling her of motion. Underneath their entwined hands, he could feel his heartbeat thunder, traitorous organ that it was. “You were not there,” he said lowly, his voice falling as a whisper between them. It had been many years since he thought of those final days in Doriath, refusing to remember the bitter for fear of it tainting his memories of the sweet. Even though the years had passed in their thousands, he could still recall Lúthien's smiling eyes . . . he could still remember her laughter and light and _life._ He could still remember the shape of Thingol's hand upon his shoulder, his uncle's approval something he had one time sought as eagerly as his father's; just as he could recall the incredible might and majesty of Melian, the awesome divinity of her countenance softened by her kindness and affection for her husband's kin. More somberly, he could remember the way his own father had laughed in those days – laughed truly, with love and pride for _all_ of his family before the dark years underneath the Sun came. And yet, then . . .  
  
“You did not see . . .” after a long moment, Thranduil had to work his voice to find his words. He could not first utter them. “You did not . . .”  
  
“No, I was not there,” Calelassel softly agreed. There was a furrowing between her brows, and he read her concern from the depths of her eyes. Gently, she wrapped her fingers about his own; she squeezed, imparting what strength and peace she could. “But, husband, _neither were they_.”  
  
Neither were they . . . he had to force himself to hold onto that one fact, that one certainty. No, the Dwarves of Nogrod were long since extinct, with the remaining blood of the Firebeards intermingled with the blood of Durin until it was only known by the few red heads of hair left amongst the Longbeard's line. Nogrod was gone, and yet . . . their greed . . . their _arrogance_ . . .  
  
These still remained, Thranduil feared, and for those traits to settle so closely to he and his own when they had their own demon to face, their own shadow to fear as it grew . . .  
  
He sighed, and leaned forward to touch his brow against her own, feeling suddenly weary in his place. When he exhaled, he shared her breath. “Yet,” he whispered, “The First of the Seven Rings was force enough to awaken a _Balrog_. If the Heirs of Durin did not learn from that experience, but instead consider themselves put upon, a people unjustly removed and then placed far from their home . . . It is a fear I hold, a nameless one, but one I can well enough guess the outcome for its shape.”  
  
“Yes, deeply did the Dwarves delve, without caution or regard for the force sleeping beneath their feet. For that heedless decision, Durin payed for with his life, and I would hope that his death now rests as a lesson learned within the mind of his grandson,” Calelassel sighed, and he could feel a matching foreboding pulse in her mind. “And yet, what is an even more disquieting thought to me . . . Was that force summoned merely by the axes of the Dwarves, or was it already stirring from its slumber . . . was it already hearing his Master as a far off cry, and thus _awakened?_ ”  
  
Her words touched that which was a wound in his own mind, a scab scoured open and rubbed raw since he'd first read Celeborn's letter. Their wars against the Witch-king; the return of the Nine; the Shadow of Dol Guldur, ever pulsing as a heartbeat in the middle of a cancerous organism, so much so that he _feared_ . . . His fears were those shared by their allies even, with one name constantly returning to their thoughts as the only possible explanation for -  
  
Sharply, he let out a breath, and frowned when Calelassel leaned against him, not in comfort for his nearness, but rather, for weariness in standing. Concerned, he let his spirit rise to buoy her own, feeling where she had once again passed a fruitless night in sleep, filled with dark dreams from the wood beyond. She had slept but little since the trees bloomed that spring, suffering from the same malady that touched so many amongst their people – as those who were especially bound to the trees felt the taint of the wood as a physical pain the closer the shadow crept upwards from the hill of Amon Lanc and Dol Guldur upon it. Even his own people tended to call the forest _Taur-e-Ndaedelos_ now . . . _Mirkwood_ , Forest of Shadows, and acutely was that shadow felt by all.  
  
Subtly, he shifted his weight, encouraging her to lean against him as much as she needed to, all the while trying to lighten the weight of her fëa from its place against his spirit. He was no healer, but her mind was as known to him as his own, and it was but second nature to give of himself so that any discomfort she bore was shared between them, and dealt with in turn.  
  
“Are you well?” he at last asked aloud, his voice deepening with his concern. He lifted a hand to touch the side of her face, and found her skin cool to the touch – too cool, the healthy pink of her complexion now touched with a pallid white. He passed his hand back into her hair in a soothing gesture, and found the nape of her neck damp with sweat enough to counter the coolness of her skin.  
  
“I am merely weary,” she answered with a wavering smile.“I did not sleep well again . . . _she_ was whispering to me in the night, and it was all I could do not to share her dreams.” Calelassel looked up, her eyes finding where the cavernous ceiling of their chambers was defined by the roots of the Great Tree – the Mother of the forest able to feel the pains of all her children in the wood, and share with the soul of her Queen in turn.  
  
Thranduil frowned at her answer, for while he was able to feel the power of the forest as an ichor running through his veins, his bond with the wood had ever paled in comparison to his wife's empathy with the trees. Yet, as the forest continued to darken . . .  
  
. . . but that was a thought he could not think through to its end. Not yet.  
  
“Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here,” he offered as gently as he could, wanting her to know of his concern without feeling as if she was being pandered to. “Rest may do you better than traveling.”  
  
“And insult Thráin with my doing so?” Calelassel returned with a raised brow, little enthused for the idea. Even more subtly he heard her mind's voice whisper how she would rest but ill away from him as it was, with his presence as an anchor to cling to when the forest turned clamorous within her dreams. Yet she gave voice to none of those thoughts aloud. “You are right, at least, about the ease of a Dwarf taken to insult, and I would not start our relationship with Erebor off as such.”  
  
Thranduil set his jaw in distaste. “I care not about the opinion of -”  
  
Calelassel shook her head, and placed a finger against his mouth. “How would you explain to a Dwarf, an immortal Elf laid low by any malady? Such sickness is supposed to be foreign to our people, and you would not have a kind ear to any reply you would try to make. No,” she stepped back from him as if trying to prove that she was well enough to stand on her own – and, for the moment she was, with her bouts of weariness being unpredictable things as the forest grew and swayed and _ached_ above them.  
  
“There,” she finally said, forcing a cheerful brightness to her words. “I am well enough for whatever is needed of me. For you know as well as I that if this alliance starts for ill, then little hope do I see in it ending any differently. The Dwarves do not know it, but they now have the benefit of a neighbor who is, unfortunately, at the heart of the Shadow's return to this land. If they let themselves, they shall benefit from our wisdom, and better will the north of this land be for all with their doing so.”  
  
“Have you ever tried to provide counsel to a Dwarf?” Thranduil pointed out wryly, having not completely made her determination her own. Carefully, he watched her as she moved to don her own overcoat, resolving to stay as close to her side as he could during their time in Erebor.  
  
“I would suspect that it would greatly depend on the tone in which that counsel was given,” Calelassel dryly returned. _Much as I have learned from_ _swaying your own thoughts_ _over the years_ _, husband mine,_ she added playfully, and only years practice at keeping an untouchable mask upon his face kept him from narrowing his eyes in reply.  
  
“Thráin does not know it, but he should be grateful that such a Queen reigns in the Woodland-realm, with your mind constantly calling my own back to reasonableness and grace,” nonetheless, a note of teasing entered his voice as he took her counsel in stride. He returned to her side to help her with the garment's fastenings, much as she had first aided him. This time her smile was sincere, and he felt her fondness rise higher than her weariness.  
  
“I am quite the gift,” Calelassel returned with her eyes glittering green. “It is true.”  
  
Though her words were playful, they were the truth to him in every way. “I do not know what I would do without you,” Thranduil admitted in a voice that came out as little more than a whisper. Her expression was soft as he gently cupped her face in his hands, her flushed cheeks returning a healthy colour to her skin once more. Yet, when he leaned down to kiss her he could not quite tell who was drawing in strength from who.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Erebor was, simply put, a wondrous feat of creation worthy of the Dwarf-kingdoms of old in terms of opulence and great, awe-inspiring, beauty and wealth. All around them were soaring halls of green marble, lit by clever crystals that let in the light of the sun and reflected it down into the belly of the mountain. Even in the grand Halls of the King they could hear the far off thunder of the forges and the chime of the smith's hammers, singing the song of the Dwarves in a melody as old as Aulë himself.  
  
It was amazing what the Longbeards were able to accomplish in but a few years, and Thranduil did not begrudge himself telling King Thráin as much, even going as far to say that his halls were equal to those of King Ginnar's in the beginning of Belegost's days in the Blue Mountains.  
  
From his left, where Calelassel walked arm in arm with him, he caught sight of her smiling in subtle approval as Thráin's chest puffed up in pride for the compliment. Thráin was young for a dwarf, being but years away from his first century of living, and his thick, curling mane of hair and neatly braided beard were black and glossy as a result. His brow was unlined by time, and his eyes were the clear, pale blue of the sky after a winter storm. To have accomplished such a building with so few years to his living was a credit to his name, Thranduil acknowledged grudgingly, pushing aside the voice that whispered that Thráin's efforts were aided, and seen through to early a completion, by the Ring he even now wore with more pride than the great weight of Durin's crown or any of the sparkling bits of gold and diamonds woven into his cloak and doublet.  
  
Trying to settle his thoughts lest they showed through to their host, Thranduil looked down as they passed over one of the high bridges, seeing where Thráin's son Thorin led Amathelon and Legolas on their own tour of the mountain halls. The three were talking easily enough, even though only he would would notice the stiffness in sons' expressions for his knowing them so well – they, perhaps, remembering his tales of Doriath's underground halls for the wistfulness with which they had first been told. Behind them, her position as the Elven-king's ward allowed Tauriel to follow more slowly, her eyes wide and awe-struck as she took in the grandeur of her surroundings, having seen nothing like them yet to compare. For a moment, Thranduil blinked – remembering trailing behind Lúthien as she marveled over the halls of Belegost the first time they were shown to her. The brightness of her laughter and the light of her timeless beauty had been mesmerizing enough, even before she was fully a woman grown, to inspire the Dwarf-smiths to craft their greatest works in the earliest of days.  
  
Even as he thought so, Thranduil watched as Amathelon's gestures turned more animated, and both Thorin and Legolas turned to his words in interest. With a quick brush against his sons' minds, it was revealed to him where Amathelon shared tales of his time marching against the Witch-king of Angmar. When Galadriel and Celeborn sent as many of the Galadhrim as they could spare to aid the armies of the north on the western side of the Misty Mountains, Thranduil had added five score of his best archers to their aid – and Amathelon had headed that unit to know true war for the first, far as such an experience was from the skirmishes he had known from the Spiders and other such foul creatures in the forest until then. Those years had been filled with long, harrowing days, while they anxiously awaited the return of their son in dread and uncertainty. Remembering that time, Thranduil did not quite care for the anticipation in Legolas' eyes - he having been much put out that he could not follow his brother then, and eager as he was for such a chance to prove himself now.  
  
Their conversation soon turned to the merits of axes and the heavy swords the dwarves favored over bows and slim elven-steel, and when Thranduil was confident that the conversation would only move to break the ice between the younger generation, the debate for now remaining friendly, he turned back to his own conversation – Thráin having not yet ceased speaking about the particulars of their building since Thranduil tuned him out.  
  
“Our building would have gone quicker had the Horse-lords given to us what was rightly our own from underneath Scatha's claws,” Thranduil became aware of the Dwarf-king's words, and fought to keep a frown from his face in reply. “The fire-drakes have been stirring all the more so in the north these last hundred years, and our kin in the Grey Mountains have ever been standing as their equal to protect their hordes.”  
  
Nearly two summers ago, Thranduil heard from his own scouts how the son of the Lord of the Éothéod had slain the great dragon who harrowed his people in the North – stealing sheep and horses and even the unfortunate mortal soul or two. Sickening of the countless burned farmsteads and lost lives, Fram had climbed the peaks to slay Scatha with one of the black-forged swords the Dwarves had horded there. News of the young man's valor had spread like wildfire through his own eaves, and even he had toasted the mortal in thanksgiving for his doing away with one of the threats hanging over all of their heads. Scatha had sat the peak of Ered Mithrin in the north, where it was rumored that the Dwarf-horde there had been the result of another of the Seven Rings working their foul wonder, and now the wyrm was no more – prompting more than one of the Wise to let out an uneasy breath in relief, even as he . . .  
  
. . . gold called to gold, Thranduil could not help but reflect uncomfortably, forcing himself to complete his thought. Once again did one of the Enemy's creatures stir after sleeping for so many centuries, answering the call of that which, perhaps, should have been shunned as thoroughly as its maker should have first been shunned.  
  
“That human maggot sent to us Scatha's teeth upon a leather cord when we tried to claim the lost treasure of our people, proclaiming them to be the equal of any jewel – and far more priceless for their rarity, at that!” Thráin all but spat the words. “But the filthy horse-folk may keep the Horn they so prize, for someday shall I have the bones of Fram Frumgar's son to set next to the teeth of Scatha, and _that_ is all that I shall say on the matter.”  
  
Thranduil set his mouth, ill set with the turn of the conversation. At his side, he could feel Calelassel's eyes focus on him in warning, even as he felt her spirit gently pulse against his own, soothing him from the words he first wished to say in temper.  
  
Yet, he could not wholly remain silent on the matter. “This son of Men ended the life of the wyrm who was plaguing his people – succeeding where even your own people could not,” Thranduil formed his words carefully, aware of where Thráin turned an eye on him as if daring him to say anything in reply to his resolute opinion. “I would think that gratitude would have been bestowed upon the boy, rather than such a demand for blood.”  
  
Thráin huffed. “Had Fram shared back with us the hard-earned wealth of our people – especially its founding piece - perhaps we would have been moved to make reparations to the Éothéod for what they lost underneath the scourge of the dragon's flames. Yet, now we will never know, for once the good opinion of Durin's folk is lost, it is lost forever.”  
  
He could feel the pressure of his wife's fingertips, and so he swallowed his words as well as he could, losing his chance to reply completely when Thráin continued: “Let me show you what my people have been able to unearth in these scant few years, Lord-elf, and you shall then understand how there was more than enough within the horde of Scatha to share.”  
  
Thingol had seen such hordes in both Belegost and Nogrod, and inwardly he sighed against the idea of seeing yet another. He appreciated fine things, true, but he'd never held the Noldorin fascination with things mined from the earth and set into rich shapes through toiling of hammer and forge. He appreciated their beauty, yes, but to him a white crystal was as fine as any diamond, and he had well learned the pains of holding tightly to such riches for seeing the Silmaril worn first by Thingol . . . and then by Dior his heir . . . and finally by Elwing, the last Queen of the Sindar . . .  
  
But those days were gone now, he reminded himself, and the long halls of his memory would only serve him for ill within the halls of Erebor. As they turned, he heard the sound of laughter below, and for a moment thought he could hear an echo of Lúthien's joy, even though she had not laughed in many such lifetimes. He closed his eyes against the sound, and held on tighter to Calelassel's arm in reply to his ghosts.  
  
They walked further down into the belly of the mountain, until he understood that they were now some levels underneath the King's Halls. When they came to a stop behind two massive doors, gilded in gold and inlaid with precious stones, depicting Durin the Deathless awakening in all of his glory, Thráin gestured, and two burly door-wards struggled to open the intricate lock system. A massively groaning sound filled the corridor until the doors at last opened to their labors, revealing the gleam of a golden light within.  
  
The treasury was already lit by more of the cleverly placed crystals all around the gaping maw of the chamber – which was even now filled with massive piles of riches and every treasure imaginable. Mithril, gold, lesser silver, copper, bronze, precious stones beyond the counting – all of it was laid in shining patterns of Dwarven ingenuity and proof of the fruitful womb of the mountain that succored them. Thranduil blinked, inwardly taken aback by just how _massive_ a collection Thráin's people had been able to produce in so short a time. It sat ill with him, he thought plainly - it _unsettled_ him as the Dwarf looked on all that he had horded, and stroked his beard with a pleased, thoughtful expression in reply.  
  
Upon his hand, the First of the Seven Rings _gleamed_ , and after a long moment, Thranduil looked away.  
  
“The majority of this was retrieved from Moria, I take it?” still Thranduil tried to reason out the sheer size of the Dwarves' wealth in his mind, hoping that to be the reason for the richness of the collection he stood before. And yet, still his inner voice warned, there would be more mithril, and less gold, if that were so. Such was not the case.  
  
“We were only able to recover the richest of our heirlooms from Moria when we fled my grandfather's bane,” Thráin said, a low note touching his voice for the words. In an uncharitable moment, Thranduil could not tell his mourning for the people they had lost or the riches they had been forced to abandon.  
  
“Such as this,” Thráin steered them towards a pedestal, upon which sat the largest pearl Thranduil had yet to see in his long life – equal to the size of an ornate helmet that sat on a nearby stand – and, a familiar one, at that, he reflected after a moment's surprise.  
  
“Nimphelos,” he muttered aloud, his words seemingly falling as ghosts in the still air of the cavernous chamber. He reached his hand out to touch it, before stilling himself, and thinking the best of it. “How came you by this?” he turned to Thráin, failing to hide the awe in his voice.  
  
“This was saved from Moria,” Thráin said again. “But it was taken from the Blue Mountains after our halls of old were lost in Beleriand's destruction, far before my own time.”  
  
“I remember the day my great-uncle, Thingol the Elven-king of Doriath, gave this to the Dwarf-kings of Belegost and Nogrod in payment for their aid in building Menegroth. Many lesser things did we also give, but your folk were amazed by this – a jewel of the sea, and thus far from your own ability to mine.” At his side, he felt where Calelassel leaned forward in wonder, a name from history and legend now made real before her.  
  
Thráin's eyes widened just subtly about the corners, and for the first, Thranduil felt the Dwarf's true interest in any words he had to say as to his collection. “Forgive me,” Thráin started slowly, “but while I have long heard of the agelessness of the Elves, I did not first realize your years to be so many. When you spoke of Ginnar's halls, I assumed that you had seen them later in the First Age, before they were lost.”  
  
Thranduil gave a low chuckle. “I saw Ginnar's halls when the stone was still fresh-hewn, and the Sun and Moon had not yet shed their light upon the land,” he revealed, “And I was then already some centuries old, at that. Great was Belegost in friendship with Doriath in those days, even if that friendship faded, somewhat, with each King who took up the scepter after Ginnar First-father of the Broadbeams.”  
  
Yet, Belegost did not take up the sword in memory of that friendship when Nogrod was angered to take blood in return for the blood they believed to be unjustly spilled - but that Thranduil wisely kept to himself. Even so, Calelassel looked up at him with sympathy in her eyes, hearing his mind as clearly as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.  
  
But he shook his head subtly, and turned his own gaze ahead. He had not been so ensnared in memory in many, _many_ centuries, and he did not wholly care for the intensity of his recollections. Time moved on and changed all things so that they were unrecognizable from that which once they were – but such was the nature of life. Death and birth and time and tide – it was to the Elves to watch it all, and, someday . . . Thranduil distantly wondered where his own kingdom would be in a hundred years, in a thousand years, in _ten thousand_ years . . . He wondered if he would continue on and survive, being one of but a few who remembered this time, let alone a time so long ago.  
  
He felt Calelassel's hand tighten about his arm, and focused on the tangibility of the moment, of the _now_ , and turned back to Thráin's tour of the treasury only when he felt a familiar light touch his face. It was a light he had not felt in centuries, and one he had been quite content to never feel again, unless it was in the form of Gil-estel's star, sailing far in the firmament above them.  
  
Distantly, he heard Thráin boast that they were _led_ to the heart of the mountain, and there they found that heart in crystalline form – a sign from Aulë himself that their taking of the mountain was fated, and the line of their kings approved by the Valar themselves. _The Arkenstone_ , Thráin called the great gem in a low, pulsing voice, and yet . . .  
  
Thranduil looked on the gleaming casings of the gem, and could have first sworn that he looked upon the light of a Silmaril for the pulsing, mesmerizing beauty of the stone. He blinked, and could only see Thingol's mesmerized eyes as he coveted what his daughter had died to possess at his command. Yet, when he tried to force that image from his mind, he next saw Dior's consumed gaze as he held close his parents' legacy to the detriment of all . . . followed by the terribly sad, possessive glow that ever haunted Elwing's eyes. Then, to follow . . . swords and blood, without fail, every time. _Every single time._  
  
It was not possible, he told himself – for one Silmaril soared in the heavens about Eärendil's brow; while the second was lost to the sea for Maglor casting his Silmaril to the waves. While, for the third . . .  
  
Maedhros Fëanorian cast his Silmaril – and himself - into one of the fiery chasms torn into the mantle of the earth from the violence of the War of Wrath and the reshaping of the very land of Middle-earth. Even the ground itself had been in such turmoil then . . . could the Silmaril have traveled through the belly of the world to turn up _here,_ of all places?  
  
Thranduil swallowed, and told himself that such a thing was farfetched – impossible, really. And yet . . . above the Dwarf-king's head, the gem pulsed – if possible, made all the more beautiful by the centuries it had spent in the belly of the earth, being hardened by fire and pressure and _force_.  
  
Thranduil inhaled, and let his next breath out slow. Calelassel went very, _very_ still next to him, she having seen the remaining two Silmarils, newly torn from Morgoth's crown, only when Eönwë brought them into their camp, and then from afar when the last two sons of Fëanor leveled their final, desperate grab for the hallowed gems. But, even that glimpse would have been enough to stay bright within her memory, no matter the passing of the years, and she too looked on the jewel with a troubled glance.  
  
And Thráin looked on the Arkenstone as if it were the face of Aulë himself; as if it were priceless and invaluable a prize. In his eyes Thranduil could see a reflection of Thingol and Dior and Elwing, and even were it not the long lost Silmaril, a part of his heart _warned_ for such a look turned on any such treasure for the ill deeds that inevitably followed.  
  
He turned his eyes down, and when he did so, he saw on a pedestal beneath the Arkenstone . . . something more curious to his own eyes . . . something personal.  
  
And Thráin noticed his look, and how he stared.  
  
“Ah, dispassionate have your eyes been this whole time, but it seems that we have found that which even the Elven-king desires – crystals of starlight and stones of pale blue brilliance!” this Thráin seemed delighted to see. “I had thought this piece to resound with you.”  
  
“The Nauglamír,” Thranduil whispered, and this time he did reach out to touch the necklace of gems with starlight in their casing, awe in his hand and disbelief in his eyes. Elwing had cast this into the sea along with the Silmaril, and while the Silmaril had been returned through Ulmo's grace, the Nauglamír . . .  
  
Thranduil took in a deep breath, but could no longer be truly surprised by such unexplained occurrences. No longer. Not any more.  
  
“Forged by the smiths of Belegost – by Ginnar himself, some say,” Thráin continued.  
  
“Inspired by the beauty of Lúthien, I can confirm,” Thranduil whispered, “whom Ginnar was enchanted by. He wept when she sang, and sketched out his ideas for this piece that same night.”  
  
“It was forged by the hands of a _Dwarf_ , though,” Thráin still returned in a hard voice, as a child defending something they wished not to give up. Thranduil had not even acknowledged his own wanting of the piece until Thráin spoke with such a defensiveness in his voice.. “With _our own_ arts did we capture the stars that reigned over our Awakening, and set them within crystal and stone.”  
  
“Yet, it was forged in honor of an _Elf_ , and then later gifted to an _Elf_ ,” Thranduil said in a hard voice, remembering the smiths of Nogrod – how they had known insult for Thingol asking them to set the Silmaril into the Necklace of the Dwarves, and their arrogance in demanding that necklace _with the Silmaril_ as payment for their toils. Thingol had hardly been able to laugh and order them gone from his sight out of incredulity for the unspeakable _ridiculousness_ of such a demand . . . and, as soon as his back was turned, stewing in insight and slighted pride, urged on by the Silmaril they had too long coveted . . .  
  
Thranduil fought to keep his face fair and expressionless, not flinching at his memories of _blood;_ both that of Thingol and that of the blood he had spilled in turn when he too marched behind Beren the One-handed and the Onodrim of Ossiriand to avenge Lúthien's father. On his arm, Calelassel's grip had turned white. Yet, even her fëa rushing forth to sooth and restrain his own was as a tree protesting the opening of the heavens above for a storm. For a moment he could not speak for the return of a rage so many centuries old, and so deeply inflicted.  
  
“Our tales tell differently,” Thráin said, his tone expressionless - as if the story of Doriath and Nogrod was so old that it meant but little to him. “We were denied fair payment for our honest work, and so we _took_ what was owed to us. For that taking, Nogrod was crippled, and one of the Seven Families is now all but extinct in these latter days. You cannot imagine what such a blow means to my people, both then and now.”  
  
_Does he think I cannot?_ the thought was as the cut of a blade, tearing savagely through his mind. _With Doriath destroyed and Doriath taken,_ _first_ _ripped open by Dwarvish_ _sword_ _s and then_ _cut down irrevocably_ _by the Sons of_ _Fëanor_ _. . ._ _h_ _ow many walk alive from Doriath now? Does Thingol now laugh; does Lúthien now sing? How many hundred, thousands, of immortal lives were snuffed out, all for the greed of a mere_ jewel _, no matter how hallowed?_  
  
“However, you forget that I was there,” Thranduil said lowly, fighting to keep his words level from his mouth. “I saw it happen; I lived through it.”  
  
“Perhaps you did,” Thráin tilted his head up haughtily. “But, you saw those days through the eyes of an _Elf,_ and such a view is by its very nature askew in the simplest of ways.”  
  
The ghosts that had been close enough to touch throughout the day then seemed all but tangible to him. It all blurred before his mind's eye – Thingol's warmth and Lúthien's laughter and Melian's wisdom and his father unburdened enough to look on his son in _love_ and _pride_ , and -  
  
He stepped forward, to what end he knew not, only knowing that his blood was rising fey and incensed within him, demanding that he act, demanding that he force the stunted being before him to understand in _blood_ , if need be - and was stopped only by a surprising show of his wife's strength, holding him back and forcing him to keep to his place.  
  
_Do not dishonor the dead as he_ _now_ _does_ , her mind was a battering force against his own. _Long has this fe_ _u_ _d_ _taken_ _life_ _for_ _life_ _many times over,_ _and I will not_ _allow_ _that pattern_ _to_ _continue here. Remember yourself, husband._  
  
“Such histories matter not any more,” Thráin shrugged, unaware of the very real danger he had so unwittingly placed himself in. “We were _led_ to find the Nauglamír in the underground waters, just as we were _led_ to find the Arkenstone in the deepest rock; it is _ours_ , a gift to see restored that which was taken from us in the halls of Moria in the most unjust of ways. Your claim to it means nothing now.”  
  
_The Ring speaks_ _through the mouth of the Dwarf-king_ , Calelassel hissed into his mind, _and the Ring wishes for discord in all things. Y_ _et, y_ _ou are_ more _than th_ _e_ _Shadow, just as_ _I believe Thráin_ _himself is - had he only the eyes to see. But he does not, and you must see for the good of both your peoples._ _You will not be able to touch his mind if you act in violence or harsh temper now, and his heirs will remember too, when_ _rather_ _may_ _we_ _need the aid of_ all _our_ _peoples in the days to come._  
  
And so, Thranduil let her words touch him. He inhaled . . . and let his breath out slow. Doing so was as a ripping through his lungs, but he at last forced his blood to calm and his fëa to retreat underneath the higher power of his mind once more. He calmed, and when he opened his eyes, the fey aspects of his spirit were underneath his control once more.  
  
_Glad indeed should Erebor be that such a Queen reigns in the Woodland-realm_ , Thranduil at last forced his thoughts to form, thanking his wife for her presence of mind and unerring wisdom without words, grateful that she truly complimented him in every possible way. _I . . . in that moment_. . . He swallowed, unable to complete his thought, knowing that he would have been able to act in violence equal to the days of old, and felt but little regret for his deeds following.  
  
. . . just as the Ring would of wished of him, he then reflected . . . just as the _Shadow_ no doubt would have hoped, as well. The next time he inhaled, his thoughts were touched with shame. His anger was not completely gone – he did not think that it would ever be - but for now, he would let his words sleep, and when he could -  
  
\- by his side, Calelassel missed her step when they turned to continue on through the treasury. Only her arm being laced through his own, and her firm grip to continually assure him of her presence, kept her from stumbling. Immediately, Thranduil went to support her with both hands, concern quickly pushing aside every ill thought that had lingered in his mind until then.  
  
“Calelassel?” her name was a breathless exhale, enough so that even Thráin turned and looked on the Elven-queen in concern. “Are you well?”  
  
“I am,” she blinked as she replied. Yet her breath was strained, and the pink had faded from her cheeks to give way to a wan pallor once more. “I merely missed a step, and I need only a moment . . .” she leaned forward, discreetly bracing even more of her weight against him, which he gladly took.  
  
Her words were genial for Thráin's sake, but he could feel her bafflement and her deeper unease through his place within her mind. Immediately he felt a rise of self-deprecation fill him - for her so strongly influencing his own fëa had taken away from where she was trying to sustain her own, and she had suffered for it.  
  
_I am sorry;_ _earlier I did not think . . ._ he passed his thoughts to her, along with a surge of his own strength – enough so that she would be able to carry herself back to the guest's halls, and recover further away from the eyes of the Dwarves.  
  
Just as the thought crossed his mind, Thráin stepped forward and inclined his head. “I fear that I have kept your lady for too long,” he said to Thranduil, and he felt a wave of Calelassel's annoyance that she should appear as such a wilting wallflower before so new an acquaintance – enough so that he was assured by the return of her wellbeing more so than anything else.  
  
“There is to be quite the feast this night to toast the alliance between our peoples,” Thráin continued, “If you'd wish to rest until then to fully enjoy the hospitality of Erebor, I would encourage you to do so.”  
  
“I thank you,” Calelassel inclined her head as regally as she could. “I would take you up on your kindness, Good-king.”  
  
Thranduil did not pause to see if Thráin meant to depart with those words spoken; he simply turned, and as quickly as Calelassel could manage, he helped her from the treasury.  
  
Such was the greatness of Erebor's halls that it took them some time to return to the quarters Thráin had extended to them. By that time, Calelassel was weary enough to not protest his encouraging her to lie down and rest – taking her crown and her overcoat to put them safely aside while she wasted not a moment in taking advantage of the well appointed furs and feathered pillows covering their bed. For all of his returning ire with the Dwarves, they did know how to appoint a room in comfort, Thranduil could at least admit - and it was but a moment until she was closing her eyes, even while her spirit pulsed against his own to assure him of her being well, insisting that she needed only the rest that was offered to her.  
  
Thranduil watched her for a long moment, concern for her health turning his mind aside from wounds so many centuries old . . . at least, for a little while.  
  
He found a matching peace slow to come to him, rather, he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. His temples were throbbing after such an effort in constraining the violence of his fëa, and his mind was still a turbulent eddy of past memories and future dreads, so much so that -  
  
“The Nauglamír is as much an heirloom of their people as it is of our own,” Calelassel whispered, still attuned to his thoughts, even when he would rather her focus her energies on her own mind, her own healing. “You will do yourself a harm if you begrudge the King this, and dwell on it in turn.”  
  
“Yet, they will not offer it as a gift in respect and good faith between our peoples because of that . . . that _thing_ worn so boldly upon Thráin's hand,” Thranduil sighed, finding his thoughts churning around this one irrefutable point; this one certain truth. “Gold attracts gold,” he repeated, “and if wisdom does not reign alongside Erebor's king, as wisdom so failed the Kings of Moria . . .”  
  
He sighed, even when Calelassel reached up to tug his right hand free from his temples, drawing him to instead rest his hand on the mattress so that she could entwine her fingers through his own. As always, she was an anchor and strength against his worst thoughts and fears, and yet . . .  
  
“We needs must find the White Wizard,” he finally voiced aloud. “Have Mithrandir press upon Saruman and force him to return from the East – I care not how he goes about it, but this has gone on long enough, and we know . . . we _all_ know who it is we are facing once more. We need no longer hide our words, and speak in riddles and whispers.”  
  
Even so, he could not say the name aloud; he could not force the syllables past his lips. But, rather . . .  
  
_It is Sauron and his spirit_ _that has returned; it is_ _Sauron and his will_ _that taints our forests – that spurred forth the Witch-king; that directs the Nine as we speak; that summoned the Balrog; that even now pulses from the Ring of Durin_ , he instead let that thought – that _certainty_ touch the forefront of his mind as a single truth, for a truth it most certainly would remain. _We can deny it no_ _longer_ _._  
  
_Yet, for centuries have our eyes been_ _slowly_ _opening to this fac_ _t_ _,_ Calelassel returned, her thoughts weary against his own. _Turn your mind from it until we return to our own halls, for your sake as well as m_ _y own_ _._  
  
He squeezed her fingers in reply to her words, knowing her to speak wisely. He knew not how long it would take for the White One to return, or for the Wise to convene once more. Yet, until then . . . he would hold his hands tight over all that was his, and endeavor to keep it as safeguarded as he could, this he could vow and uphold absolutely.  
  
He looked down on his wife, seeing where her eyes were even now closed and her breathing deep and even. Only a lingering paleness to her skin gave away her malady, rather than simply proclaiming her to be in comfortable repose. Feeling a twisting in his chest, he lifted a hand to gently touch her cheek, to tuck her hair back from her face and behind her ear once more. With the hand she still held, he felt her fingers flex in reply, and then turn still.  
  
_I will be no Thingol . . . no Dior . . . no Elwing,_ he nonetheless thought as her consciousness faded from his to sink into a true, exhausted sleep, _I will not_ _allow myself to_ _be entranced by treasures that pale to the true wealth_ _of that which_ _I hold before me._  
  
Thranduil squeezed her hand one last time, before abandoning his stiff posture on the edge of the bed to lay down next to her. He did not intend on sleep, but if he could hold her and ensure that her dreams stayed fair in the few hours she would have to rest . . .  
  
He let out a deep breath as she instinctively sought him out in her sleep, molding her body to his own in a comfortable tangle of limbs. He held her even tighter as her sleep deepened, ready to begin his vigil. He kept his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling above as the far off thunder of the forges pounded as a counterpoint to his own heartbeat. The ceiling above them was a rich mosaic of dark sapphires and gleaming diamonds – a gaudy display of wealth that nonetheless unerringly mimicked the glory of a starry night sky in the beginning of all things.  
  
And, with a flickering of knowing, he acknowledged the truth as he knew it to be: _Un_ _less Erebor's king reigns in wisdom, and casts the Ring aside,_ _these halls will last no longer than Moria._ _A_ _nd . . ._ _upon that day,_ _I will not mourn when such a power falls._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scatha and Fram** : Unfortunately, I did not make a word of that up. The Éothéod – the earliest people of Rohan, when they lived in the north – were hazed by the dragon Scatha, and Fram Frumgar's son finally slew the dragon in defense of his people. The Dwarves, however, claimed the horde of Scatha as one of their own, and demanded it returned. Fram refused, and gave them only the teeth of Scatha as a 'jewel beyond compare' in reply. The Dwarves did later kill Fram for this insult, and thus, there was never any love between the Dwarves and Rohan – as you can see with Éomer's first encounter with Gimli in TTT. While it may have seemed as if I was being harsh on Thráin in the text, I was actually giving him the benefit of the doubt with their intentions of sharing that treasure. :(
> 
>  **Thráin I** : Son of Náin I, son of Durin VI, and not to be confused with Thráin II Thrór's son, father of Thorin II Oakenshield. The history of Erebor as I related here is straight from canon; in 1980, merely five years after the defeat of the Witch-king, the Balrog took Moria when the Dwarves mined too deep, and the surviving Longbeards relocated to Erebor. Also canon is their use of the First of the Seven Rings – which was no doubt waking up at this time, as Sauron's spirit was also growing, and most certainly the root for many of the problems that befell the folk of Durin from that point on. I do think that Thráin would have presented himself better, had he not been wearing the Ring – as we see with both Thrór and Thráin II in later years. :(
> 
>  **Doriath vs. Nogrod** : Is just how I relayed it here and in other chapters. :( While you can blame the rashness of the Dwarves' actions on the influence of the Silmaril, it was still one of the worst deeds of the First Age, and the only fault of the Elves I can see is how they dealt with their hate and prejudice in later days. Thranduil is getting a grip on himself here – just barely - but, unfortunately, when things continue to go downhill for his people in later years, you can see how his patience with his Dwarven neighbors will wane as well. :(
> 
>  **Ginnar First-father** : I wrote him as the first King of Belegost in my Melian/Thingol arch of stories, and here he is in memory again. 
> 
> **The Arkenstone** : Sorry, you cannot tell me that the 'heart of the mountain' it is not Maedhros' Silmaril! That has been my head-canon for _years_ , and while I have avoided writing about it until now, here it is. The very shape of Middle-earth was altered after the War of Wrath – which was the entire reason Maedhros was able to pull off his suicide via heart of the earth in the first place. I could see the Silmaril being lost in the core/mantle of Arda and then resurfacing thousands of years later when the Dwarves mined Erebor; and it most certainly also explain the fascination and luring qualities that the Arkenstone bears on its possessors. Poor Thorin never had a chance in the light of the forces stacked against him and his line! :(
> 
>  **The Nauglamír** : When I first came up with this plot arch, only AUJ was out, and I was fascinated by the necklace Thranduil wanted from Erebor – as it would also explain the line from the Hobbit that said that the Elven-king was greedy for white crystals and blue stones. While I understood what Jackson tried to touch on in BoFA, taking Thingol's story and giving it to Thranduil - sorta - I still decided to keep my original idea, even if it was technically the more far-fetched of the two.
> 
> . . . but, if the Silmaril could make its way to Erebor, then why not the Nauglamír too? Especially if the Dwarves had the Ring of Durin leading them to riches in the mountain? My own history for the necklace is a bit different from canon - where it was made by the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, then gifted to Finrod, then taken by Húrin from the ruins of Nargothrond and given to Thingol in mocking 'payment' for Doriath's care of his family. (I know, that's a mouthful!) My version of its history is simpler, and stumbled upon, once again when I wrote Ginnar's bit part in my Melian/Thingol plot arc. You can take it or leave it as your own. ;)
> 
>  **Calelassel's Sickness** : Just as the Dwarves are bound to their ancestral homes, the Elves are bound heart and soul to their forest, and as their forest sickens . . . well, you can fill in the blanks from there. The Greenwood is not a happy place to be in the next thousand years, sad to say, though we will touch more on that in ficlets to come . . . :(
> 
> If you have any more questions, or passages that caused you to wonder, let me know - I'd love to chat about it. If not, I will see you all next time! :)


	76. "and came my way no more"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin & Celegorm & Celebrimbor || Prompt: _Thaw_
> 
> For my 10,000th hit, Inkwriter graciously pointed out that I had not written for Celebrimbor once in this collection. Apparently, my muse had repressed feelings on the matter, for my word count rose so high that I had to post my Celebrimbor piece here: ["I have been hungry all these years"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3794743)
> 
>  _But_ , I still have more Fëanorian drama to offer you in its place. Thank-you, once again, Inkwriter! :)

**Thaw**  
  
At first, the whispers from Nargothrond were such that could not be believed.  
  
Yet, more and more were those who'd once welcomed Fëanorian dominion over their heads trickling into their last stronghold of Amon Ereb; ill at ease with Orodreth's compliant leadership, and uncomfortably certain that the insistences of the mortal man _Mormegil_ would lead the kingdom to its doom. Curufin had held his own disbelief at the first – for their half-cousin was not one who favored such rash methods of open warfare, and the idea of quiet, practical Orodreth arming his men for marching against Morgoth - long after their efforts would do any good – was all but laughable to any who knew him well.  
  
Yet, in the last days of autumn, news of Nargothrond's fall finally came. Such was the unexpectedness of the scout's report that Celegorm's disbelieved, _delighted_ laughter in reply was a startling thing to them all. He toasted the uncertain looking scout, and spat on the floor in memory of the kingdom where he'd known his biggest disgrace; proclaiming his satisfaction for Finrod's _dear_ realm meeting such an end for all in the Great Hall to hear. Such was the suddenness of his outburst that many of the supping elves looked to where the sons of Fëanor sat on an upraised dais at the head of the hall – for but a scant few years had passed since their absolute defeat in the Fifth Battle, and rare had laughter been heard since then, true or otherwise.  
  
Maedhros looked askance at his brother, as if Celegorm's cruel brand of amusement was an affront to the pall he'd seemingly worn about his shoulders since their defeat and Fingon's death. The harsh lines of their eldest brother's face sharpened, but even his hissed rebuke of _Tyelkormo, cease_ did little to quell Celegorm's mirth. Nargothrond was one of their last hopes for allies when – (and more accurately _if_ , Curufin was pragmatic enough to admit) – they mustered themselves to march on Angband anew. Now their hope of reclaiming Morgoth's crown and the remaining two Silmarils therein was further away than ever, and everyone in the hall acutely felt the precarious position of their power, balanced upon a knife's blade as it was.  
  
Curufin did not need the sharp dexterity of his mind to know where Celegorm's argument would next turn. Since their losses suffered at the Nírnaeth Arnoediad – losses that Thingol's might would have prevented, had his alliance with Lúthien come to fruition; losses that _Nargothrond's_ full aid may have prevented - his rage had been hot, and his eye had ever been turned upon Doriath, wanting as he did to lay the Hidden Realm low and _take_ the Silmaril of Lúthien - by force, if necessary. While Maedhros' hopes of Thingol's returning the gem out of gratitude once they vanquished the threat of Morgoth had since proved to be for naught, he was still slow to turn his hand in violence towards another elven realm, no matter that they _all_ knew where their course would eventually lie. Not until Lúthien found peace in mortal death would they strike – for this Maedhros tried to stall, not wanting their House to heap any more pain or indignity upon her shoulders until such a time had passed. And so, for that day Celegorm would wait, and Curufin . . .  
  
While he too wished for the fulfillment of their Oath – such was a wanting he could feel with every beat of his heart and every pulse of his blood – he did not care for the hold the Sindarin witch still held over his brother's mind. First and foremost was his concern for Celegorm's health and happiness, and this mere _woman_ \- just like the one before her, whose name he would not mention, not even within his own mind - had done much to take both from him. If Curufin could stay his course as long as he could, he would.  
  
Yet, this time he did not need to fabricate an excuse to distract his brother. For, almost without thinking, the words slipped from his mouth, and he asked, “What news have you of survivors?” in a voice that held little of the bland disinterest and haughty command he'd first intended for it to.  
  
The scout looked up to him with apologetic eyes. “We know only that Orodreth Finarfinion was slain in battle, and Finduilas his daughter was taken as a thrall for Angband. Such is the onset of winter that I could not risk sending more of my men out to search for further news.”  
  
Even to the relative south, the hills were bemired with cold storms that were already giving way to ice and snow – even before the technical onset of winter. It would be a fierce season, this was a truth they could all feel in their bones; the worst winter they had yet to see in their years upon Endórë.  
  
Curufin frowned, and pressed his palms flat against the table. He looked down, but found that his meal had gone cold to his eyes. His wine held no temptation within his cup. He . . . he did not feel the sort of sundering in his spirit he'd felt when his father had died, and even though his son had foresworn his name and cast aside the blood that bore him, Curufin still felt that he would _know_ if something had happened. He was still his father; such remained his right.  
  
It was Maglor who looked on him with understanding in his soft grey eyes. “If there were survivors, I am certain that Telperinquar would be amongst them. He is still of our father's blood, and he would not have fallen so easily.”  
  
Even so . . .  
  
Curufin forced his expression into a dull mask of apathy, and picked up his knife again. “I know not of whom you speak,” he stated tersely, his voice brokering no room for argument, and went about cutting his quail into bite sized pieces once more. He did not look up after that, and his brothers' eyes eventually turned away from him – they each thinking to leave him to his _grief_.  
  
Yet, Curufin simply took a long swallow of his wine before gesturing for more. He did not bother to correct them as an anger, hot and potent, stole through his veins as fire. _Foolish, stupid boy_ , he nonetheless berated within his mind, unable – and unwilling – to let his thoughts stray any more than that.  
  
It turned to be a fierce winter indeed, a Fell Winter, with ice and snows and freezing temperatures turning the land inhospitable to Orc and Elf and Man-kind alike. By the time the spring hesitantly came upon the land anew - as a hush after a storm - Celegorm was all but bristling within his skin, and Curufin held a restlessness in his bones to match. Before the snows wholly melted, they were already saddling up their horses and preparing to descend into the wild once more – the only place where Celegorm could quiet the restless, fey cast of his blood with the thrill of the hunt and the comfort of the wilderness he had been born to. Curufin came, not out of a matching love, so much, but because he would not let his brother suffer through his fell moods alone. Instead, he would be able to watch over him out as a shield and a companion both – as he had done so a hundred times before, and would do so a hundred times again.  
  
They left the fortress of Amon Ereb behind before the sun wholly rose over the thawing land, but when Celegorm wished to push east to the River-lands (where _she_ dwelt, this Curufin plainly understood), he instead angled his horse to the west – telling himself that he only wished to keep his brother from _her_ , and nothing more.  
  
Days passed, and they followed the hills of Andram to the west. The game was scarce, but that mattered little to Celegorm, who instead gloried in the cold sunlight upon his face and the surety of a horse underneath him; basking in the freedom of the land open and waiting before him once more. This was an empty country; a no-man's land, as so much of Beleriand was since Morgoth broke their leaguer in the North. The remaining Men and Elves lived in secret clusters while the Dwarves kept to their mines; with the very land itself seemingly holding its breath for what would happen next. For the first, Curufin was unsure of the fate of Middle-earth as a whole, and told himself that he cared only for one thing: the fate of his Oath. The rest of the world could live and die from there, and he cared not. He _could_ not.  
  
The passed the gates of Sirion, and spent many a day by the high tiers of waterfalls there, watching where the rushing silver-blue waters pushed through their thick veils of melting white ice. The sight of the breaking freeze was dramatic and stirring, and once, years ago – a lifetime ago – Curufin would have fought the urge to capture the scene in some form of art or another. For now, he simply fiddled with the reins in his hands, and cast his eyes away.  
  
The mud on the riverside was thick from the melting of the snow, and it sucked at the hooves of their horses as they made their way down the path. Around them, hardy shoots of grass started to peek through the mire, while the trees budded as if hesitant of their right to do so. The sun was just starting to warm over their backs, waking the world anew, and though Curufin would hardly admit his hope - even to himself - he nonetheless wondered, and from that wondering knew . . .  
  
If there were survivors from Nargothrond, some far, distant part of his mind reasoned, they would not have been able to make their way to the shore and Círdan's folk with such a winter preventing their traveling. Rather, they would have hidden in the caves surrounding the falls of Sirion, and from there waited for the spring, hopefully surviving to make that final, desperate push to Balar and relative safety in the court of the child-king Ereinion – who was just now being known as Gil-galad. If his suspicions were correct, they would just now be moving from their hiding places, and for such, his senses were ever turned to the path before him - as if he could conjure that which he wanted to see into existence through force of his will alone.  
  
Curufin frowned when each passing day revealed more of Orcs and other unsavory creatures than of the natural residents of the forest. Nargothrond had been a key strategic point in their continued defense against Morgoth, and now . . .  
  
. . . but he squared his jaw, and let his mind wander down that path no more.  
  
“I do not know what you hope to find,” Celegorm muttered when he bid them spend just one day more in that unkind country. “Or,” he added, neither cruelty or hope upon his lips, but rather a blunt, uncomfortable honesty, “what welcome you expect if you _do_ find him.”  
  
But Curufin did not acknowledge his brother's words. He was only silent as he stared into the dark, certain that just beyond them . . . somewhere . . .  
  
His bond with his son had been dim since that long ago day in Nargothrond, when Celebrimbor had thrown his name and his heritage back at his father and proclaimed that he wanted not of a place upon his path, not any more. With a vengeful sort of anger, Curufin had hoped that the loss was more a wound to his son than to him, but now . . .  
  
. . . he sought out that dull place in his spirit, as if moving ashes to stoke the remnants of some stubbornly burning ember. The connection was still there, no matter what words had been spoken aloud; for his son would be able to truly disown his name only if he somehow found a way to cast aside every drop of blood flowing within his veins. Curufin could feel his child as if through a haze, sensing him through a thick fog – never mind that there were moments when he imagined that their connection strained, as if tugging. Distantly, he remembered the faint tightening to his senses that was always followed by his son seeking out he and his wife after black dreams in the night, and this was so similar that for a moment he was unable to breathe – before swallowing, and pushing his memories away with a practice long born out of determination. Memories of his wife, based in mourning and missing; memories of his _son,_ were an affront to his Oath. Even more so, they dishonored the father who had loved him, and whom he had all but worshiped in return. He would not turn aside from Fëanor's path, not when they were at last _so close_ . . .  
  
. . . but so close to what? The thought was an ominous one, brushing against his senses with a telling sense of foreboding before he forced his mind to stillness once more.  
  
They came as far west and south as Nan-Tathren – the Land of Willows where the rivers Narog and Sirion met in a rush of white water and breaking silver ice. There they camped, and determined that they would turn back east come morning. Curufin settled down for a long night, little noticing the cold that settled into his bones when he felt it again: that tightening upon his senses. That _tugging_.  
  
. . . and he _knew_.  
  
His eyes snapped open, and wordlessly he found his feet again. He looked to see that Celegorm was already awake – he having never tried to sleep in the first place – and inclining his head towards the west.  
  
“Just on this side of the river Narog; no doubt waiting to cross come the thaw,” Celegorm muttered. “But,” he added, just as Curufin felt another presence on the wind – fell and ominous and _hungry_ , “they are not alone.”  
  
Tightening his jaw, Curufin sighed, not yet ready to form his reply.  
  
“We would do best to depart tonight,” Celegorm rolled his shoulders in an apathetic shrug. “Let the survivors of Nagothrond live or die; it matters not to us.”  
  
Still Curufin was silent. He did not move.  
  
“Soon,” was all he said to his brother. “But first . . .”  
  
“Curvo,” Celegorm exhaled through his teeth, understanding his intentions. “This is not -”  
  
“ - healthy?” Curufin returned, his eyes flashing as he turned on his brother. “Just as I would say if you haunted Lúthien's isle as you originally intended to do; yet, would you have listened to me? Telperinquar is of _my blood_ , he is born _of me_ , and I've a right to see if he lives and fares well or not.”  
  
“Telpe is no longer of our blood _by choice_ ,” Celegorm snapped, his eyes terribly grey as they narrowed, meeting his gaze over the scant warmth of their dwindling fire. For many years, not a flickering of green had been therein to see. “He will welcome his _Kinslayer_ _father_ not, and I would not see you put yourself through such an encounter if I could prevent it.”  
  
For a moment, Curufin was silent. He paused.  
  
“Just a glance,” he at last decided. “My mind will not let me a moment's rest otherwise.” His pretending – his years of careful masks - they gave way then, and he knew the truth of his words as a wanting that nearly rivaled his desire to see their father's Silmarils returned to their hands. He only knew that he _needed_ . . . and in that moment he was ready to do nearly anything to see that need fulfilled.  
  
Celegorm held his jaw stiffly, but he nodded, albeit grudgingly. Curufin did not wait a moment before saddling his horse, and he did not glance behind to see if he was followed. A moment later he heard the steady hoof-beats of his brother's courser, and knew that Celegorm would continue on where he led, at least for a little while longer.  
  
They finally came upon an encampment of nearly five dozen elves amongst the willow trees. Each looked weary, with clothes and supplies that had seen better days before the Fell Winter they had endured in the wild. For a moment, Curufin was surprised to see that so few had survived from Nargothrond's once teaming populace. He ground his teeth together, cursing first Finrod and then Orodreth as he remembered the beautiful kingdom of carven halls. That impregnable realm could have been such a strength, such an asset to their continued siege of Morgoth in the North. And yet, now . . .  
  
But his thoughts of pieces upon the larger board of shifting power in Beleriand were interrupted by the warm tenor of a familiar voice, speaking through the moonlight. Curufin inhaled, and did not let out his breath as he kept himself perfectly still, not wanting to move lest he missed . . .  
  
_His son_ , walking through the camp of Nargothrond's survivors. He looked, and with greedy eyes, he saw that Celebrimbor was apparently untouched and healthy to his eyes. As he had the day he was born, Curufin looked and saw four perfect limbs, with fingers and toes to the counting; taking in the eyes that were caught between his own grey and his mother's blue, burdened by the changing of the seasons, but otherwise unharmed and untouched. Celebrimbor had suffered not from the battle in any physical way, and Curufin let loose a breath he had not known himself to be holding – for while he had known that his child was _alive_ , there were worse horrors to be endured than merely death alone, and if Celebrimbor had born scars, or worse, been one of those taken to Angband _alive_ to endure a living death . . .  
  
. . . how Morgoth would have _delighted_ to have a son of Fëanor's blood within his clutches once more, Curufin sickened to imagine. How sweetly the dread Vala would have rejoiced, and for that rejoicing . . .  
  
Curufin found his fists tightening without his realizing that he curled his fingers in the first place. He felt his fëa lick against the surface of his skin; his fey spirit aggravated for even the _thought_ , before he let his breath out slow. His lungs ached around the motion, no matter how necessary it was for life and its living, and his heartbeat was a racing thing within his chest.  
  
He looked, and though his son was dressed in thread-bare clothes, wrapped in a bear-skin that was freshly hunted, his hair dull and no finery worn about him, those he passed looked up at him with respect and gratitude shining from their eyes. It took Curufin a moment to realize that his son was the de facto leader of this small group, and they credited him for their rescue and even now looked to him for their continued survival in the wild. It took him several seconds to recognize the fierce lighting in his veins as _pride_ , but pride it was, even if the emotion was not enough to move him from his place – to push him through the trees and force him to hold his son close and whisper his apologies for ever letting _anything_ come between them.  
  
Instead, he merely held himself stiffly; as one with the swaying fronds of the willow trees and the slowly thawing land, his heart yet untouched by the hesitant warming of the spring.  
  
When Celegorm touched his arm, he turned, and though it was a painful thing not to look back and stare, he kept his eyes straight ahead, his vision resolutely centered. He would not let himself be moved.  
  
“They are close,” Celegorm remarked simply. “You do not want to retreat, do you?”  
  
Sharply, Curufin shook his head. “You wanted to hunt, Tyelko, did you not? So let us hunt,” was all he said in reply, but he knew that his brother understood. He would do this one last thing for his son; this one last thing before turning his eyes back to the path his Oath set out before him, and for his doing so . . .  
  
Perhaps Celebrimbor would notice, a small part of him whispered, and through that noticing, _know_. And, at the very least, his son would be safe to face another day, even while knowing not of the measures taken to secure his well-being. For, such was what fathers ever did for their sons.  
  
And so, Curufin rode close by his brother's side, his hand already making a fist about the hilt of his sword, and did not once look back.


	77. "love will see us through our dark, dark days"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor/Canonical Wife & Ensemble Fëanorians || Prompt: _Crescendo_
> 
> Because now my muse is stuck on a House of Fëanor loop. Enjoy. ;)

**Crescendo  
  
** It was with a certain amount of trepidation that he stared down his foe. With an ease born of long practice, he stilled the frantic beating of his heart; he forced his hands to stillness. With the same easy grace he knew for a lyre and its strings, he raised his hand, ready to strike -  
  
\- only to find that he could not follow through on the blow.  
  
At his side, nimble fingers threaded through his own, granting him both courage and fortitude for the battle to come. He glanced to see Nyarissë smiling a gentle smile, her eyes glittering impishly in the warm light of the late noon.  
  
“You act as if you stand ready to face a foe,” she raised a brow to say. “These are _your_ family, yet you bore less nerves for approaching _my_ father and brothers with your suit. Let me then assure you: I am ready to face them, even if you are not.”  
  
“If you knew my kin,” Makalaurë responded sagely, “you would well understand my trepidation, and _share_ it in kind.”  
  
“Yet, it is a _good thing_ that causes you fear,” Nyarissë only smiled to say. “And I am through with waiting – you have put this off for too long as it is.”  
  
“Today will be a good thing only _if_ you are still by my side when the night is through,” Makalaurë disagreed in a grave tone. “If you were to run, I would understand, and only wish you well on your flight.”  
  
“Such dramatics,” she chuckled to say. “Yet, I already have met your one brother -”  
  
“ - _Maitimo_ is not my _brothers_ ,” Makalaurë said cryptically, fighting the urge he had to shudder. “I'm not yet convinced that Nelyo is not half Maia, at that, and if he asked me to walk on water, I would. But . . . _sweet Eru_ , Carnistir alone would be enough for you to -”  
  
“ - want for my place beside you even more?” Nyarissë returned, a quiet strength lining her voice. She held his hand tighter, her thumb passing over his knuckles soothingly, no matter that their words were spoken mostly in jest . . . mostly. “No words, nor actions, from your kindred would be enough to dissuade me of that,” she vowed.  
  
Her words were playful and affectionate, but he could feel the brush of her spirit against his own, and knew that she meant her every word. He felt his own look soften, still quite stupefied as to how he had ended up here - with _her_ – in the first place. He was still amazed, and unsure what he had done to deserve such a blessing in his life. During his first, awkward days in Alqualondë at the Lindar's colleges of music, he had all but ran her over in his attempt to find his scheduled lecture – and for helping her pick up her spilled sheets of music he had most certainly ended up late. But his tardiness had earned him _her_ attention – so much so that he did not even mind when the Master-harpist berated him in front of his fellow students, still as dazed and wondering as he had been.  
  
To his further surprise, Nyarissë's family was one of the main patrons and founding members of that school; her parents were instructors, and she and her brothers were all learned in one form of music or another. Her soul had seem to pluck at his own like the strings of a harp, and their courtship had been fast and breathless from there. Only a sennight ago had he braved the forge to craft the ring he would ask her to become his wife with, and now, if all went well this eve, he would then be free to . . .  
  
He swallowed, feeling a wave of trepidation fill him for his family's approval. His father had been less than thrilled when he finally turned irrevocably against Aulë's path, and while Fëanáro had never disapproved openly, Makalaurë had never once heard him speak of his pride or interest in his decision otherwise. Maitimo had been the only one of his brothers to come and visit him during the last ten years he'd spent in Alqualondë, enjoying Arafinwë and Eärwen's hospitality while he did so, and while he was more than proud to present his (hopefully) soon-to-be-wife to his dearest sibling, for the rest of his brothers . . .  
  
Makalaurë sighed, and finally summoned enough courage to rap the bronze knocker one, twice, and then three times.  
  
He stepped back to wait, glancing to his right to see Nyarissë's nodding in approval. Underneath the warm light of the Trees, her pale blonde hair was the shade of a sandy shore at Laurelin's waning, and the one lock of white hair that grew from her right temple (the result of a childhood accident on the sea-cliffs; the hair had never grown back with pigment after she was healed by Estë's Maiar) was a bright flare of colourless light. Her skin was bronzed by the reflection of the Treelight on the ocean, making the deep-water shade of her eyes even darker than usual. He fancied that he could feel the song of the sea in her soul, even as far as Tirion was from Alqualondë, and locked by dry land as it was. As long as he was with her, the melody of the tide was ever a song that brought him comfort and peace.  
  
. . . such as he most dearly called on now when the door opened to Curufinwë's disinterested stare. Though his fortieth begetting day was only just approaching, his younger brother was already studying to test for the rank of Master-smith underneath Aulë's knowing eyes. While Makalaurë and his brothers each bore their own talents, their skills were the result of hard-work and studious application - only for Curvo did his skills come as easily as breathing, so much like their father, in every way, as he was.  
  
Even now, the younger Curufinwë's mind was clearly somewhere else as his eyes flickered past him to look Nyarissë over once, before turning away, little impressed.  
  
“Laurë is here!” he only paused to shout over his shoulder, not bothering to give them any further greeting than that. “And he brought company.”  
  
With that, he turned and left without waiting for an introduction, his thoughts already clearly returning to whatever task they had interrupted.  
  
Makalaurë flushed as he stared at his brother's back, wanting to explain his sibling's rudeness, but Nyarissë merely tilted her head curiously to the side, and remarked, “He looks astoundingly like . . .”  
  
“My father?” Makalaurë finished for her. He swallowed uncomfortably. “Yes . . . very much so. Only, do not tell _him_ that. Curvo's head is already too big for his shoulders as it is.”  
  
Nyarissë tucked away a smile, and wrapped her fingers more securely about his own. They followed Curufinwë inside, and she glanced this way and that as they walked – finding the residence of Curufinwë Fëanáro less than the intimidating mansion-homes of Tirion; statuesque and untouchable in their pristineness. Rather, his childhood home was an airy and open feat of architecture filled to the brim with comfortable furniture and potted plants and laughing fountains showcasing his mother's work. The design was sprawling and wide, for with every child – or developing interest that child showed – Fëanáro had merely decided to add on to the existing structure, rather than building anew – as if eager to bend his mind to the properties of space and its use.  
  
As ever, Makalaurë inhaled deeply, already feeling the embrace of _home_ wrap around his senses when he smelled the herbs from his mother's summer garden, alongside the warm scent of freshly breaking bread from the kitchens. The kitchens, where -  
  
Sure enough, Curufinwë ducked under Tyelkormo's attempt to ruffle his hair as he passed. “Thanks for that, little one,” Tyelkormo teased – an endearment that had failed to leave Curufinwë with age, as he was the still the shortest of all of the brothers – something that he'd inherited from Grandmother Míriel, if the stories were to be believed.  
  
In contrast, Tyelkormo was the tallest of Fëanáro's sons besides Maitimo – but he surpassed his lithe eldest brother in breadth of frame, as well as nearly matching him in height. His white-gold hair was tied back in a loose braid to prevent it from getting in the way of the vegetables he was cutting, while at his side, the dark haired Carnistir was peeling potatoes with a studious expression.  
  
“We were not expecting you for another hour, Káno,” Tyelkormo greeted brightly, his eyes flickering from him to his guest. Leaning over to wipe his hands on his brother's apron – for Carnistir ever did take his cooking too seriously – he then walked over to wrap Makalaurë in an embrace, before turning to Nyarissë with a lazy smile worn upon his handsome features – turning him from stunningly attractive to devastatingly so. Makalaurë frowned, feeling strangely affronted by the look.  
  
“The roads were fair from Alqualondë,” he replied, stumbling over his suddenly thick tongue as he forced his features from a glare. “We made good time.”  
  
“Yet you still took too long if you were hiding such a beauty from us!” Tyelkormo chided. “Were you afraid of who'd she choose if she met us all earlier than now?” He bent over to kiss the back of Nyarissë's hand, his green-grey eyes glittering wickedly as he did so. “I bid you welcome to the house of Fëanáro, good lady, and hope that you find everything to your liking during your stay.”  
  
Makalaurë only continued to glare, even as Nyarissë gave a patiently amused expression, backing an appropriate step away only when his brother did not immediately let her go. “Tyelkormo, meet Lindananiel Nyarissë,” he nonetheless made the introductions, his tone terse. “Nyarissë, this is my first youngest brother, Turkafinwë Tyelkormo.”  
  
“Though the lady may call me whatever she wishes,” Tyelkormo winked before turning back to the cutting board – wisely moving out of arm's reach before he tempted his normally passive elder brother into hitting him.  
  
“If the lady is wise, she will call you nothing at all, and you will stick to wooing your horses,” Carnistir retorted with a snort. “It already appears as if she has refined taste if she prefers Makalaurë's company.”  
  
“At least I am _beloved_ by my horses,” Tyelkormo was nonplussed to admit. “You, however . . . what was the name of the last girl you tried to court? The one who fled in tears from Ingwë's ballroom last solstice?”  
  
“I was _trying_ to compliment her. It's not my fault if she did not take it that way,” Carnistir muttered under his breath, his expressive face reddening.  
  
Makalaurë shot Tyelkormo a reproving look. “And this,” he pointedly interrupted, “is my second youngest brother, Morifinwë Carnistir.”  
  
Carnistir saluted her with his potato peeler, still glaring at Tyelkormo as he did so. Tyelkormo only snorted, little impressed by his younger brother's ire.  
  
“I see that we are early,” Makalaurë broke in before any more bantering could be traded. “Is there anything we may do to help?”  
  
Carnistir, who had returned to peeling his potatoes with a certain amount of violence, looked mildly alarmed. “By Manwë's bowels, _no._ You are not to be allowed near _any_ of this.”  
  
“Ay, but I am not that -” Makalaurë protested when Nyarissë blinked, curious as to the sudden vehemence in his brother's voice.  
  
“ - except that you _are,_ ” Tyelkormo agreed with Carnistir. His tried, and failed, to suppress a shudder.  
  
“The Crab Cake Disaster of Grandfather Mahtan's begetting day?” Carnistir was all to quick to remind him. “When you poisoned over half of the gathering?”  
  
“And the Midsummer's Massacre of the Pasta,” Tyelkormo added. “Amil could have used those noodles to sculpt in place of her marble, and they would have never given up their shape.”  
  
“Those were not . . .” Makalaurë tried weakly, but he did not have a defense that would come to him.  
  
“It was inedible,” Curufinwë did not look up from where he was sitting at the counter, pouring through a thick textbook, to say so. He blew delicately on his steaming mug of strong black tea before taking a sip, unknowing of – or unaffected by - Makalaurë's venomous look in reply.  
  
“You are one to talk, Curvo,” Makalaurë still found it within himself to return. “You fare little better in the kitchen than me.”  
  
“Which is why I do not cook,” Curufinwë returned simply, still not looking up from his text.  
  
“He can _clean_ a mad dish, though – sparkling glass and sterling silver, every time,” Carnistir continued lightly. “Which is _all_ that you will be allowed to do, Káno.”  
  
“May I help?” at his side, Nyarissë cut in to offer. He felt a glimmer of determination from her spirit, and knew that she was eager to include herself in any way she could.  
  
Carnistir gave her an uncertain look, clearly weighing her ability to contribute to his culinary efforts against his wish not to appear rude in declining.  
  
“I have three brothers, a Telerin father, and a grandmother who is a baker for Olwë's household,” Nyarissë tilted up her head to say so. “Odds are that I can best even _you_ in the kitchen, Morifinwë Carnistir.”  
  
Tyelkormo laughed outright at her challenge, clearly amused as he looked at his darker brother – who too appeared to be tickled by her claim.  
  
“You'll have to forgive me for my dubiousness, good lady,” Carnistir nonetheless recovered himself. “In our family, the fairer sex rarely stands in the kitchen – not even for the bread making. Between Amil, Aunt Findis, and, dear Valar, _Irissë_ -” he shuddered.  
  
“ – mind your tongue about Irissë,” Tyelkormo warned, lifting his knife to point it in a vaguely threatening manner at his brother.  
  
“And _you_ watch your knife-work,” Carnistir returned, glancing down at the cutting board. “The vegetables will not cook evenly if you continue to butcher them as you are.”  
  
“Say a word about my skills with a blade again, and I will see that you are given a true demonstration, _Moryo_.”  
  
“Is that what you wish _Irissë_ would say?” Carnistir returned with a harsh cackle, and Makalaurë sighed – deeply – and counted to ten.  
  
Predictably, Tyelkormo slammed the knife down, but before he could move to overturn the bowl of potato skins on his brother's head, Maitimo walked into the kitchen. With an ease born of long practice, he pulled Tyelkormo back by the collar of his tunic without even asking what the disturbance was for, keeping him from violence.  
  
“Mind your manners in front of the lady. You do not want to scare her away,” Maitimo counseled out of habit as he swatted at the backs of their heads – for which Tyelkormo and Carnistir both uttered halfhearted protests in reply.  
  
“It would take more than mere words to do away with me,” Nyarissë turned her nose up to say, and after a continued moment's amusement, Carnistir passed her his potato peeler with the utmost seriousness.  
  
Maitimo smiled upon seeing the interaction, and said, “He likes you, if he is trusting you with supper.”  
  
“Peeling potatoes is hardly _supper_ ,” Carnistir objected, but he did not disagree with his brother beyond that – for which Makalaurë was quick to notice, and take comfort from.  
  
Maitimo's eyes glittered for his saying so, and he passed behind Nyarissë, touching her shoulder in greeting so as to not distract her from her task before coming to clasp him in a quick embrace. It had been too many months since last they'd seen each other, Makalaurë thought, returning the gesture with affection. His older brother was still dressed in the trappings of the court; with his heavy burgundy robes and his golden circlet still nested upon his braided scarlet hair. From such, he suspected, there was a darker shade to the normally silver-grey shade of his eyes, and his brow was lined with heavy thoughts.  
  
His place in court had fallen on him, for rather did he know that his brother would have preferred to continue upon his path as a lore-master – perfecting his father's alphabet and committing the ways and learnings of their people to writing as he had been doing for years – but the tempestuous cast of Finwë's court as of late had benefited from his sage hand, and he had not been able to turn away his grandfather's request during such a time.  
  
“Trouble in the court of Finwë once more?” Makalaurë asked, and although his words were light, they bore an undernote of concern.  
  
“Nothing more so than usual,” Maitimo would not speak in greater detail; not then. “Today was merely an interesting day – as it ever is when both Atar and Uncle Nolofinwë decide to appear at the same time. Somehow they each got it into their minds that one was being asked to council while the other was not – though Eru knows who started _that_ whisper - and Grandfather was hard pressed to keep their squabbles down. Finno and I ran interference, but, one of these days, their rows will end in violence, of that I am certain.”  
  
“But not today?” Makalaurë asked, raising a knowing brow.  
  
“Not while I have anything to say about it,” Maitimo confirmed, before looking over to where Carnistir had taken the potato peeler from Nyarissë to properly correct her technique. “But we shall speak more about this later. For now, enjoy your time with my soon to be _good-sister_. I need to change out of these clothes before they suffocate me, then I shall join you.”  
  
Maitimo did not give him time to denounce or confirm his assumption, and Makalaurë felt a curious sort of tightening about his chest as he watched his intended-to-be interact with his brothers – subtly dodging Tyelkormo's harmless flirting and bearing up under Carnistir's prickly demeanor with a grace that even had Curufinwë looking up from his books to observe. It looked _right_ , he could not help but think, as if she was always supposed to be apart of their household, and he stood there watching his family with a soft expression on his face. He reached into his pocket to touch the ring that even now rested there – as if doing so was a talisman against any foul thing that the evening could have thought to throw at them.  
  
Such was the high spirits in the kitchen that Carnistir even let him _stir_ the sauce – not anything more than that, of course, else the unanimous certainty was that he'd find a way to botch supper for them all. Makalaurë bore up under their teasing with good humor, and not even an hour later he joined Curufinwë in setting the table – making sure to set extra places for the two of his fathers apprentices living with their household at the time. He frowned, noticing that there were no places set for his mother's students.  
  
When he asked about the irregularity, Curufinwë was silent, and Carnistir sighed as he sat down his platter of sauteed vegetables. Since the birth of the twins, Carnistir was the eldest of the brothers to live consistently at home, and he had his finger on the pulse of their family more so than the rest of them combined.  
  
“Amil has not taken a new apprentice since the twins were born,” Carnistir said carefully.  
  
“But the Ambarussa are over six months old,” Makalaurë did not understand. He remembered Nerdanel balancing Tyelkormo in her arms when he was but _weeks_ old, attending to her newborn son as she walked around her studio and continued to instruct her students to the best of her abilities – ill as she was to leave them alone for too long.  
  
But longer did she take to return to her duties following Carnistir's birth, Makalaurë recalled with a ghost of memory. And after Curufinwë . . . Nerdanel had not quite been the same since then, and though she had seemed wearier than Makalaurë had ever seen her to be when he returned home for the twins' Essecarmë . . . he'd thought that to be a weariness to pass with time, as it ever did.  
  
He frowned, but was kept from asking of his mother's health – wanting to know more than the vague pleasantries letters had since conveyed – by the arrival of his father.  
  
“Something smells good,” a rich, warm baritone declared – a voice that had he and his brothers lining up behind their places, even as his father's apprentices scrambled to stand at attention at the end of the family line, their bearing rigidly straight and their fingers white-knuckled upon the backs of their chairs.  
  
Fëanáro's presence was one that could be felt, even before his father was seen or heard. The massive cast of his fëa was as a flame, hotly burning, and, as ever, his presence danced across Makalaurë's senses the same as Treelight at the Mingling hour. Better was he able to hold the eyes of the Ainur than his father's gaze for the way the silver-light there burned, for Fëanáro had a way of not looking upon him, but rather _through_ him, seemingly into marrow and vein. When he was a child, young in his days, there had been comfort in the heat of that gaze, but now . . .  
  
He kept a polite expression to his face, and glanced to his side to see how Nyarissë fared. She had wiped her palms on her dress, and was standing poised and tall, doing her best to smile her sincerest smile and look at her someday – hopefully – good-father with the aim to gain his approval. He watched where she blinked, and her spirit tinged with a moment's fascination when Fëanáro entered the dining room – a fascination that Makalaurë could not wholly blame her for. There was a devastatingly terrible beauty about his father – something that was more than the arrogant sculpt of his features and the perfect alignment of his body. Rather, it was the way he was seemingly torn from the belly of the earth – something molten and primal given breath and flesh and form; it was the dangerous sort of grace that seemed to drip from his every movement, and the all but tangible might of his spirit that flooded out to overwhelm everything he all but looked upon. For years Makalaurë had constantly been aware of his father's greatness in both body and mind, and for trying to replicate a similar such greatness, to earn his _right_ to be called the son of such an elemental _force_ of a being . . .  
  
He wiped his own hands on his tunic, and tried to hide that he was as apprehensive as Nyarissë felt.  
  
As was tradition, Fëanáro greeted Maitimo first – which was cold and strained, their interaction no doubt a remnant of whatever incident had occurred at Finwë's court that day – and when his father turned next to him, Makalaurë bowed his head, and said, “Atar,” in a formal greeting.  
  
“Kanafinwë,” Fëanáro blinked, as if surprised to see him. With the events of the day in mind, he was sure that his father had more pressing things weighing upon him, Makalaurë reasoned – it was understandable for something as trifle as a dinner date to be forgotten.  
  
But, whatever disappointment he felt for his father's forgetting was passed aside when Fëanáro ignored his deeping bow to instead wrap him in an embrace. He smelled of smoke and iron – he no doubt having worked out his frustrations in the forge before washing up for dinner, but there was familiarity in the scent; comfort even. His father's body gave off heat like a furnace, and as if he were a child once more, he closed his eyes as he sank into his embrace – for his father never gave such affections halfheartedly, and Makalaurë clung to him, needing that moment to steel himself, to ground himself on the assurance the affection provided, longing as he did to believe that he was as missed as he'd hoped himself to be.  
  
“I had thought that the Lindar would never let you go once they heard you sing,” Fëanáro at last pulled back, smiling to say so. “But, it seems that you have brought one of the Singers away from the sea with you. Such is quite the feat.” He raised a dark brow in interest, his eyes clearly weighing his companion.  
  
And Makalaurë did not have to force himself to stand up straight and tall when he introduced Nyarissë, for his pride in her was real and all-encompassing. “Yes,” he cleared his throat to say. “Atar, this is Lindananiel Nyarissë. Nya, this is my father, Curufinwë Fëanáro, son of Finwë Noldóran and crown prince to his rule.”  
  
“It is a pleasure to meet one of Lúcnando's children,” Fëanáro bowed his head to say in greeting. “Your father is one of the most accomplished harpists I have ever had the pleasure of hearing.”  
  
“He would be honored to hear you say so,” Nyarissë's face flushed prettily as he leaned down to kiss the back of her hand, his every movement as graceful as a flickering tongue of flame.  
  
“And, someday, she will surpass even her father in talent,” Makalaurë could not help but add, pleased to see her blush deepen with his words.  
  
“A match you are for my son, then, for someday I think that he will surpass even the Ainur in propensity for song,” Fëanáro smiled to comment. But he was kept from saying anything more when Carnistir pointedly cleared his throat – no doubt fretting for their dinner cooling overly much, and Fëanáro obediently continued down the line to greet each of his sons.  
  
When he came to Nerdanel's empty place, he stopped and raised a brow. “Is your mother coming down?” he asked, his voice cool and unreadable.  
  
After a moment's hesitation, Carnistir was the one to reply, “No,” in an uncertain voice. He had turned his gaze down underneath the heavy eyes of his sire, and only briefly did he sneak a glance back upwards again.  
  
Fëanáro said nothing, but Makalaurë could feel the churn of his spirit as heat over kindling.  
  
“She had a long night with the Ambarussa, and she is weary,” after seizing his courage, Carnistir took the opportunity to elaborate. For saying so, he boldly stared his father in the eye, but his moment of subtle critique did not last long before he looked away again, his defiance forgotten.  
  
Fëanáro merely held his jaw tightly in reply, and made a sharp gesture to the table. “Your efforts are going cold,” he turned the conversation, and that was that.  
  
After taking a moment to thank Eru for their meal, they sat down to eat, and Fëanáro turned his attention to patiently listen to Nyarissë as she spoke about herself and her family, detailing their work with the colleges and her own accomplishments and ambitions as a musician. Makalaurë listened to her speak with warmth and pride lightening his spirit, near certain that his fëa was rising to glow atop his skin as a light for all to see.  
  
Yet, Fëanáro's eyes were only ever politely interested, and as soon as it was not rude of him to do so, he turned to Curufinwë to ask him about his day's studies, eager as he was to quiz his younger son's mind, and thus judge his readiness for Aulë's trials to come. Makalaurë tried to fight back a wave of disappointment at his doing so – for he had not seen his father since the twins were born, and though he'd kept up a written correspondence with his family, he had hoped . . .  
  
Perhaps sensing his wound – and being truly interested, and desiring of his company, at that – Maitimo was careful to keep up a steady line of chatter, asking about his days in Alqualondë with interest, and sharing about his own time in the court of Tirion in turn. Nyarissë listened attentively, and his brother was mindful of keeping her included – something which he only regretted when Maitimo grinned to share a childhood anecdote or two that were _not_ flattering, in any sense of the word. Yet, there was a naturalness to the conversation that gladdened his heart to see, so much so that Makalaurë imagined that he could not want anything more from that evening. That was, until -  
  
\- there was the sound of a baby crying from further within the house.  
  
At first, they paid the sound little heed – for the Ambarussa were still babes in swaddling clothes, and such was to be expected of their few days.  
  
Yet, the crying did not stop as they finished their plates – not even as their dinner was cleared away, and Carnistir and Tyelkormo brought out their dessert of sweet ice. If anything, the crying seemed to turn louder as time went on by, and although everyone at the table tried to keep up a steady chatter of conversation in reply, their topics took on a forced quality as Fëanáro turned all the more silent, his mood visibly darkening with a brooding strain the longer his youngest children cried.  
  
Until, finally, Carnistir stood. “I should see if Amil needs assistance,” he excused himself, but, unexpectedly, Fëanáro slammed a closed fist down on the heavy wooden table. The polished mahogany was of Yavanna's own forest, but even that splintered underneath his blow as the delicate dessert crystal leapt and shook alarmingly in reply.  
  
He said nothing, but the bright grey of his eyes was alight as the white-hot center of a flame as he stood in an abrupt motion. His fëa was as the lashing of a storm against their own spirits, overpowering in might as he turned and left the dining room without a word said for his leaving.  
  
Carnistir glared at his father's back, and looked as if he dearly wished to follow him and speak in his anger. His spirit rippled with a bristling ill-content, yet Maitimo was the one to wisely hold him back, saying, “See to Amil. I will go after Atar.”  
  
Carnistir bit his lip, and fisted his hands. “This is all _his_ fault,” he snapped in a low voice. “This last birth nearly _killed_ Amil to bear – really, he should have known better after Curvo. Yet, he does not care that she suffers now – he just runs like a _coward_ to stare at his Silmarils for hours on end while she wanes before his eyes. It sickens me to -”  
  
“ - _Carnë_ ,” Maitimo's voice was sharp as he interrupted. His eyes flickered from where Fëanáro had disappeared, to where Makalaurë still sat in stunned disbelief, his hand white knuckled in Nyarissë's hold. “Now is not the time. Please, see to Amil.”  
  
“Because that is all I _ever_ do,” Carnistir returned hotly, his eyes flashing fire before softening – ever unable as he was to hold onto his rancor against his mother, or youngest brothers, for long. He glared over at Curufinwë. “You should go after Atar. You are the only one he cares to see when he's like this, and Maitimo does not deserve to bear up underneath his temper anymore than he already has today.”  
  
“Why should I?” Curufinwë returned blandly, raising a sharp brow. “It is not my fault that the twins were born outside of sense and reason. I should not have to -”  
  
“ - _Curvo_ ,” Maitimo interrupted harshly, his fëa licking with a white-hot flare of anger – almost enough to match their sire's in shape and potency. “You will come with me. Now.”  
  
The wailing cry of the twins punctuated his saying so, and with an oath spoken underneath his breath, Carnistir turned without another word towards their mother's rooms.  
  
Curufinwë too turned, and with a bored expression of indifference, walked off the opposite way. Tyelkormo looked between the feuding parties, for a moment uncertain, before following his younger brother out.  
  
After a moment, Makalaurë slowly stood, Nyarissë's hand finding his arm to rest as an anchor as she followed him in kind. He found Maitimo's eyes, but felt as if it took his brother a moment to truly see him, needing as he did to hesitantly touch Maitimo's spirit with his own for him to focus on him once more.  
  
“Nelyo,” he muttered slowly – hating the words he needed to speak, but unable to push their speaking aside. “What . . . what is it that I do not know?” Or, simply have not _admitted_ , he amended, even if only to himself.  
  
Maitimo looked down, the silver of his eyes darkening as with storm light. “This last pregnancy was difficult on Amil,” he answered slowly. “The twins . . . they are not as they should be, and Amil has not recovered since their birth. Atar . . . I am certain that he blames himself – for surely he must see a reflection of Míriel in this, even though he can speak of such things not. Yet, rather than helping Amil through this . . . all I can say is that he has not been as he once was. After creating the Silmarils . . . with Melkor's incessant visiting and meddling . . . the ever growing frictions in Grandfather's court . . . all of it is building as a crescendo – brewing like a storm from the summer heat, and yet . . .” Maitimo tapered off, helpless as he ran a hand through his hair, clearly overwhelmed.  
  
“I . . . I am sorry,” Makalaurë said after a long moment, guilt turning his voice. “I have been gone while you have had need of me, and I've left you to . . .”  
  
“No,” Maitimo interrupted in a hard voice. “You should have been sent to Alqualondë years ago, and I am glad that you've been able to make your own path – far from the one Atar originally had picked out for you. You've every right to seize the happiness you can.” He turned and looked on Nyarissë significantly, but even the normally comforting cast of her spirit seemed to be far away from him – felt as if from an ocean away - and he instead regretted . . .  
  
“The only thing that can fix Atar – that can fix our parents and their relationship – is they themselves,” Maitimo said firmly. “Now you know, and you can move onwards from there, but there is no sense in lamenting the past – nor in fearing the future, no matter what . . .” but Maitimo could not finish his own words, oppressive as the weight of their foreboding was.  
  
There was then a sharp wailing noise – sounding unnaturally pained, and Makalaurë started to hear it. He turned towards the sound, and said, “I too wish to see Amil,” with determination lining his voice.  
  
Maitimo gave a weak smile in understanding, and touched his shoulder once before following where Fëanáro had left - no doubt to disappear into his workroom once again. And Makalaurë turned, his thoughts distanced and dazed, but still noticing that _she_ had yet to leave his side. Nyarissë's hand remained firmly clasped about his arm as they left the dining room behind, and headed towards his mother's rooms. Never once did she waver.  
  
They arrived to see Nerdanel's sitting room flooded with the waning light of Laurelin. His mother sat by the window, gazing outside without truly seeing – without even blinking as the Trees painted shades of gold over the scarlet flame of her hair and turned the green of her eyes something earthen with the flare of their light. But even the soft lighting could not conceal the shadows darkening her eyes as bruises, nor could it hide the thin, unhealthy shape of her body. Her elbows and wrists were sharp, while her cheekbones were sunken and hollow, at odds with the strong and voluptuous form he'd long since known his mother to bear. Now . . .  
  
Carnistir was trying, unsuccessfully, to rouse Nerdanel – for in a cradle only a few feet from her the Ambarussa were crying – screaming, really – and she did not once blink, she did not once look on her children, let alone move to console them. Such was so far from the warm and caring mother he had always known that -  
  
\- Makalaurë turned, and could not bring himself to enter the room.  
  
He held a hand over his eyes, and leaned back against the wall before the entryway, as if he did not enter, then the sight within would not be real. When he looked again, everything would be as it should have been, and he would see . . .  
  
Yet, even as he tried to blind himself to the truth, he could hear Carnistir call out for Nerdanel within. He sounded equal parts frustrated and unsure, and yet, she did not answer him – her son, who was still little more than a child himself, just past his fiftieth year, and already taking so much onto his shoulders . . . After a moment, Carnistir gave up trying in favor of turning to the two babies she was deaf to, shushing and trying to sooth both their aggravated cries as one.  
  
And Makalaurë closed his eyes tightly, wishing that when he opened them again, all would be well, all would be _fine_ , as it _once_ was . . . as it should be _now_.  
  
. . . but _when?_ some terribly honest voice inside of him whispered. When had his family ever been perfectly normal, perfectly as they should have been? Ever had these fracture lines sundered his family, and now there was simply a harsh light shining through them, showing where they were flawed and _wanting_ in so many ways.  
  
He felt Nyarissë by his side, but wondered – devastated: how could he ever ask her to bind herself to such a family? How could he ever expect to be different than those he was born of; of the name and flaws that ran through his own veins as something barbed and terrible and _wanting_? How . . .  
  
He did not open his eyes when Nyarissë came to stand next to him, not even when she leaned against the wall by his side and pushed her shoulder against his arm, letting him know of her presence without saying a word. Her spirit gently cradled his own, as the sea-shore hugged the sea, and yet . . .  
  
“If you should not want to stay now, I would understand,” his voice was a low breath of sound, absent of the beauty and might it normally held. He opened his eyes, but could not bring himself to look at her. “After seeing this . . .”  
  
“After seeing what?” she gently returned. “Every family has their imperfections; their good parts and those flawed. This is nothing more than that.”  
  
But it wasn't that simple, it was _so much more_ , he thought as the Ambarussa continued to scream within. It was a broken, helpless sound the babies gave, and it was all the worse for how they cried perfectly in sync, perfectly in harmony with one another, shared as merely one voice was between them.  
  
“You cannot want to bind yourself to this,” he couldn't stop himself from whispering. “You cannot want to . . .”  
  
“Your family is not _you_ ; they are merely a _part_ of you,” Nyarissë returned, her voice turning with a low sort of fierceness. “I would not turn away the whole I adore for a mere part that I do not fully understand.”  
  
“Yet . . . you can see as well as I: something is not right, it is not . . . it should not be like this in Aman. _We_ should not be like this _here_ -”  
  
“ - but you are what you are,” Nyarissë returned simply. “As such, you can either confront it, and aid it, or you can close your eyes to its existence and willfully ignore the truth. But,” her hand moved to trail a gentle caress up and down his arm, “if you chose to accept that Arda marred is still _Aman_ within that taint, and see fit to mend what is torn, then you shall not do so alone. When you ask me, I will gladly – and proudly – stand by your side. In this and all things.”  
  
He opened his eyes, and was surprised to find her staring straight at him, holding his gaze with a fearlessness that humbled him to see. Noticing his shock, she smiled a half smile – a sad smile, no matter how true it was. “Do not think that I have not noticed the ring you've been carrying with you,” she was nonetheless happy to point out. “I did not want to rush you, but before your own mind could interfere, I had to seize my moment and tell you that I accept – I _will_ consent to become your wife when you ask me properly. Do not think this to count, Fëanárian.”  
  
She stood up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, before kissing his mouth once, softly, and then standing down again. When she turned from him to enter his mother's rooms, her gaze was very, very bright, and he could feel her spirit against his own as something seeking – and, finally, he let his own answer. He stood up straighter, and opened his eyes – to all that he would see.  
  
He turned, and lingered in the doorway to watch Nyarissë stand next to Carnistir. She reached down into the cradle to take the second of the twins, saying, “Here, allow me,” as she did so.  
  
“No, I -” even so, Carnistir protested. But his brother sounded weary to his own ears, and so, _so_ young as he spoke. Makalaurë felt his heart twist at the sight, wondering how often Carnistir slept or sought his own path for his constantly being devoted to his mother's side in place of his father. He felt his brow furrow at the thought, liking it but little.  
  
“ - yet, you do this often, do you not?” Nyarissë interrupted gently. “It would please me to help. My youngest brother was a fussy baby, too.”  
  
Carnistir looked as if he wished to protest further, but she pointedly turned away from him in favor of glancing at the door and gesturing for him to come in. Understanding her wish, he came in to take the second baby from his brother, his long practice with younger siblings and too many cousins to mention having him automatically know how to hold and how to sooth. This child was no different, he told himself, and he smiled down at the poor, unhappy face, seeing the babe's pale grey eyes blink through tears as Pityo waved his tiny fists in wordless frustration.  
  
He looked, and noticed that the baby Nyarissë held moved in the exact same way . . . at the exact same time as the one he held . . . and tried to _accept_ , rather than judge the strange bond that linked the twins they held.  
  
And so, he did as softly, beautifully, Nyarissë began to sing.  
  
The first time he'd heard her sing, he had not been able to do anything else but listen; struck as he was by the way her voice seemed to wrap around his bones and settle behind the pulse of his heart to seep into his very spirit. He had thought that he first knew his love for her through her song, and his youngest brothers were as immune to her voice as he'd first been – with first one of the twins slowly quieting, and then the other, they each giving matching little hiccups as their identical faces rippled with frowns and then a hesitant sort of peace – as a lull after a storm.  
  
Gently, he added his voice to her wordless song, finding that the dips and turns of her melody came as instinctively to him as breathing. He followed her in harmony as a hushed sort of peace came over the room – so much so that even Nerdanel turned, and took Carnistir's hands in her own to squeeze when he came to sit next to her. Exhausted, his younger brother laid his dark head against their mother's shoulder when awareness came upon her again, and Nerdanel blinked before running her hand through his hair in a comforting gesture.  
  
And, holding Nyarissë's eyes, he continued to sing, slowly warming to the belief that everything, someday, would be okay, so long as he had – and continued to hold onto – what he had right there before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Makalaurë/Kanafinwë/Káno** : Maglor  
>  **Maitimo/Nelyafinwë/Nelyo** : Maedhros  
>  **Tyelkormo/Tyelko** : Celegorm  
>  **Carnistir/Carnë/Moryo** : Caranthir  
>  **Curufinwë/Curvo** : Curufin  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Finno** : Fingon
> 
>  **Essecarmë** : Naming ceremony for baby Elves.
> 
>  **Cooking and Gender** : Yep, it's canon, according to the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, that male elves cook, while female elves task themselves with bread-making - mostly, for such is never an absolute rule. Look at Tolkien, being all feminist during a time-period where a woman's place was - for the most part - expected to be cooking and cleaning and minding the children! You gotta love that man. ;)
> 
>  **Nerdanel and the Twins** : I have mentioned my head-canon about the toll the twins being born placed on Nerdanel, and the one soul shared between the Ambarussa, more than once - and I actually have a ficlet or two coming up that should explain precisely why that is. But for now, there you have the next piece of that puzzle.


	78. "stars hide your fires"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indis/Finwë/Míriel || Prompt: _Honesty_  
>  Finwë & Nerdanel || Prompt: _Ambition_
> 
> Because I had to explore this terribly wonderful family even more now. This touches a bit on the last chapter, and follows up on some of the themes I started to explore in Chapter 19 and everywhere, really.
> 
> Also, also, the amazing [amnevitah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amnevitah/pseuds/amnevitah) did fanart for Caranthir/Haleth [here](https://40.media.tumblr.com/16cef74910c1db1d17a732c9162dd837/tumblr_nnwv7iKx2s1qi3pt7o1_1280.jpg), [here](https://41.media.tumblr.com/1278e52f0d92c99be7a1c83af28a4f48/tumblr_no2jaenhwa1qi3pt7o1_500.jpg), and [here](https://41.media.tumblr.com/7cd1fdbe7818cb0c417839d1ad7905e3/tumblr_no3pzhb5MG1qi3pt7o1_540.jpg), and you should all check it out! I am the happiest, luckiest author ever - so standby for happy Caranthir/Haleth fic in reply. It's coming. ;)

**Honesty**  
  
Indis had not seen Tirion since her people left its white walls to settle Valmar at the foot of the Holy Mountain; but Finwë had written to her brother, specifically requesting her presence . . . and, while she could find the strength in her heart to deny any wish of his, _she_ was another matter entirely, and when Míriel beckoned . . .  
  
She gathered only what she needed to carry with her, and set out from Valmar without pausing to answer the questions hidden in Ingwë's eyes. She could not speak when she did not have answers herself – or, rather, the voice to utter the truths she knew to be inscribed deep within her, seemingly written on her very bones.  
  
When she entered the Queen's chambers, Finwë was thankfully not there. Instead, there was only Míriel, sitting on a cushioned couch by one of the floor to ceiling windows and staring out at the waning light of the Trees. There was no other light in the room but for the Mingling, and Indis watched as Laurelin threw flame against the white-gold of her hair and Telperion painted silver in the soft grey of her eyes. She thought, for a moment, that their light was the only colour Míriel possessed, dressed as she was in white and pale, so very pale – as if they dwelt underneath the Starlight once more, with naught of the true Light to darken their skin with its vigor and life.  
  
But Indis' eyes fell to where Míriel had paused in her weaving – an outfit for an infant, her bruised heart noticed – in favor of placing her hands over the swollen bulge of her stomach. Her fingertips were white, however, as if she did not touch to sooth the child she carried, but, rather, endeavored to hold both herself and the baby together. Indis paused by the door for seeing so, uncertain.  
  
“It smells as the clearing did the first time Imin decided to play with spices,” Indis nonetheless forced her own feelings – her own petty longings – aside in order to smile and say. She raised a pale brow when Míriel turned to meet her eyes, fondness lightening the weary expression upon her face.  
  
“It is an incense my midwives tell me the Teleri burn in the south,” Míriel confessed dryly. “To sooth the fëar of the unborn.”  
  
“While caring not about the nose of the mother?” Indis returned playfully.  
  
Míriel's eyes twinkled. Indis came closer, and noticed the dark shadows underneath her gaze with a sinking feeling. Her once strong and healthy form was now thin, with her elbows and wrists poking through the sleeves of her gown and her cheekbones hollowed out near to cutting. It looked, Indis thought with a glimmer of dark thought, as if her child was sucking _everything_ from her, and keeping it all for himself – allowing nothing of her own for his mother to keep.  
  
“If it soothes him, I would count any such assault on my senses a worthy sacrifice,” Míriel admitted, noticing her stare. She winced before she could respond further, however, and Indis looked down to where her child was active – able as she was to see a strong foot kick, the thin cloth of her dress disguising the rippling across her stomach but little.  
  
“There is a need for such soothing?” Indis asked carefully, delicately – what was whispered as rumor from Tirion to Valmar suddenly made real before her.  
  
Míriel was quiet for a moment, a long moment, and Indis took her seat next to her – feeling once more as if they both slept on the ground across the Sea, and whispered of their hopes for the future, wondering what fair Aman would grant to them as Finwë told them tales of the glory of the Trees over and over again. So _full_ had Indis felt in those days, so _complete_ , and now . . .  
  
Ever a three fold strand had they been, and though she knew it was _wrong_ to feel so, to _want_ . . .  
  
She swallowed, and hated that there was a pain her friend suffered that she could not sooth; that there was a hurt afflicting her that she could not assuage. And Míriel only smiled a sad smile in answer to the unspoken, and reached over to grasp her wrist. With a moment's question in her eyes, Míriel drew her hand to rest on the curve of her stomach, to feel . . .  
  
Indis flinched at the scalding sensation that met the palm of her hand, momentarily taken aback. “Such a warmth . . .” she muttered, astounded. She had not been around expecting women enough to know the norm from the not, and yet, _this_ . . .  
  
“Such a _heat_ is my child,” Míriel defined more accurately. “There are days when I feel as if he shall burn a hole through me. When his light leaves me I am certain that all will be dark again . . . as it was _before_ , and I fear . . .”  
  
But Míriel closed her mouth, and narrowed her eyes with a hard determination - one that Indis was more familiar with. Ever had Míriel been a stubborn flame, brightly burning, and now . . .  
  
“What have Estë's Maiar said?” she asked, her people's faith in the Ainur then shining bright. “For, surely . . .”  
  
“They are as baffled as we are,” Míriel confessed. “Somehow, my child has simply taken too much of my soul – such a thing is unheard of, and should be as far from the night as the noon. And yet . . . Aman is still _Arda_ , and so long as this land bears its taint . . . even something as simple and joyful as bringing a child into the world is now marred as Arda is marred, and it is left to us to bear up underneath that burden.”  
  
Her fingers pressed against her own as Indis felt the child within give a mighty kick, and even she could feel how the movement of the child _burned_. It was as if her friend held a flame in her womb, a _star_ ; incandescent in its glory and light.  
  
“Finwë bears through beside me with good cheer, but I can see that it is at times forced,” Míriel's voice fell to a whisper to confess, honesty creating a terrible truth from her mouth. “Already he holds me as if trying to keep me with him by _force_ , and someday I fear . . . I fear that it shall not be enough.”  
  
She leaned forward, weary, and Indis shifted to let her lay her head against her shoulder. Automatically, she reached up to run a hand through her friend's hair, wanting so dearly to sooth that which was as a wound before her. She closed her eyes, and felt that they were burning. Her eyelashes closed against tears.  
  
“I am so tired,” Míriel confessed, her whisper so soft that Indis felt the thought from her mind, more than heard it spoken aloud. “I am so very tired, all the time now . . . There is naught I want to do but sleep, it sometime seems.”  
  
“Then rest,” Indis shushed her. “Rest. . . . close your eyes, if you wish. I will remain here.”  
  
She felt Míriel's hands fist in the material of her gown, as if she were an anchor on a swelling sea. Though doing so - being here _at all_ \- was as a tearing in her own heart, if she could but provide solace and comfort in the smallest of ways . . . she would. She would be strong enough for her friend – for _both_ of them.  
  
_Marred . . . mistakes_ . . . she reflected. And yet, she could not quite believe that the love that defined her was an adverse effect of creation. The One could not disapprove what was the center of her very existence; the root of her being, and her reason for _belonging_. She did not know how she could exist without her love, even as unfulfilled as it was.  
  
“You have been away for so long,” Míriel found it within her to whisper. “We had such dreams for reaching Aman, such expectations and plans . . . but, now . . .” She swallowed, and a long moment passed before she asked, “Would you sing for me? He quiets for songs, and you always did have the most lovely voice.”  
  
Indis could deny Míriel nothing, and so, softly, she started to sing – not one of the polished and pretty songs of devotion and grace her kindred sang to the Valar at the foot of their mountain, but rather, one of the star-songs from across the Sea. The song was composed when their language was still young, and the words were raw and unpolished as a result. The feeling the song carried with it was more primal, more _real,_ as everything had then seemed new and ripe for the picking. There was hope and wonder in the song for the idea of the Light across the Sea, even if, now . . .  
  
When Míriel further relaxed to rest her head against her chest, Indis could feel where she wept silent tears. She closed her own eyes in answer, merely holding her closer as her child continued to burn as a star between them.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Ambition**  
  
The coolness of the day was refreshing; this being as close to autumn as the central regions of Aman ever came to experiencing. Yet, Nerdanel felt sweat bead on her brow as if she instead walked through the heart of her husband's forge on a hot summer's day.  
  
At last, she had to pause and take a moment's rest – stopping in one of Tirion's bustling market squares to sit on the rim of the large, ornate fountain that dominated the center of the space. She glanced up at the sculpture of Vairë in the center of the pool, where, from the dozens of threads she held, laughing jets of water leapt and played as they splashed down into the pool below. At Vairë's feet, listening to all the Vala had to say with a beautiful and fierce pride, was a woman Nerdanel knew only by the shadow she left in the face of her husband. In death, Míriel Þerindë cast a shadow that was as potent as the one she bore in life, and Nerdanel wondered at the coincidence of her body needing to rest here, of all places.  
  
She sighed, and reached up to move a loose curl of fiery red hair back from her face, escaped from the haphazard tie she had restrained it in. Her hair stuck to her forehead, and she had to breathe in deeply, feeling as if she had just run from her father's forge to Tirion and back. Once, she reflected grimly, such an endeavor would not have wearied her, but now . . .  
  
Nerdanel winced, and settled herself so that she was not sitting in such a way to strain her back. She then glared at the package that had caused her fatigue – inwardly cursing her stubbornness that had wanted to start sculpting the beautiful block of red onyx that afternoon, rather than waiting for one of Alasto's workmen to deliver the stone to her the following day.  
  
Once was, she could carry three times as much stone without breaking a sweat. Yet, now . . .  
  
She sighed – again – and nudged the block of onyx with the toe of her boot, disgruntled.  
  
When her body temperature still refused to cool, she turned her torso so that she could run a hand through the cold water of the fountain. She glanced, and found Míriel to be staring at her as she did so, her eyes of stone knowing everything without her speaking a word aloud. Nerdanel looked away after a moment, but the once-queen continued to stare; she felt her gaze as a burning between her shoulder-blades.  
  
Sighing, Nerdanel pressed her opposite hand to her still flat stomach, and bit her lip, feeling as if there was already a leaping flame burning underneath her skin. Such was as she had not felt with any of her children until Curufinwë – who had been his father's son in every possible way - and now . . .  
  
She looked up, suddenly self-conscious for the gesture being noticed – not at all caring for this particular news to be public knowledge just yet. But she was interrupted from her pondering when a familiar shadow paused before her, blocking the Light of the Trees, even as his smiling eyes leapt with a warmth of their own.  
  
“This always was one of my favourite sculptures of Míriel,” Finwë said by way of greeting. “She had not cared for it much in life, and yet, she ever was unimpressed by anything that bore her likeness.”  
  
“This was one of the sculptures that made me first want to pursue my art,” Nerdanel confessed, matching the fondness in her good-father's voice. “Though such is a calling that I am now regretting at the moment.” She looked down at the onyx as she spoke, her gaze hardening to match the stone blow for blow.  
  
“Ah,” Finwë said, glancing down at the raw stone in understanding. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, and she saw a shadow touch his brow underneath the weight of his crown. He looked startlingly like Fëanáro as he frowned, she thought - though he was the heat of a star's core, where her husband was something seemingly torn from the mantle of the earth to her senses. “Amongst the Teleri in the south, onyx is said to be nocuous to expecting mothers,” he remarked slowly – carefully.  
  
So Fëanáro had told him. She sighed, and looked down, unable to meet the Noldor-king's eyes. “Amongst my mother's kin in the north, onyx is a talisman said to ease pregnancy,” she countered with a forced brightness to her voice. “We shall see which superstition proves true by the time this child is born.”  
  
She frowned as she felt the light of her son – another male, she thought with a flare of fond long-suffering – fluctuate at her saying so. So bright was this child of hers already, with a fëa that was more flame than the warm little spirits she could touch and be touched by through all of her pregnancies to date.  
  
Already did this child seem to burn through both her fëa and hröa as something living, and she wondered what would be left of herself in his wake. Nonetheless, she pressed her hand against her stomach, feeling a queer determination fill her. No matter the dangers, the fact remained that this child was here now, and she would give very life in order to care for him to the best of her ability. Nothing else could match that truth in her heart.  
  
“I knew my son to be ambitious,” Finwë remarked after a careful moment. “But I expected no more grandchildren from my eldest after the pains Curvo's delivery brought you. I had thought my son to know the wisdom in this too.”  
  
There was a subtle rebuke in his voice, and Nerdanel bit her lip at his tone. So, Fëanáro had not told him _that_ , then. She sighed, and fought the urge she had to rub at her temples, weary as she was.  
  
“Ambitious?” she repeated, forcing her voice to a level tone. “My mother called me _foolish_ , along with a few choice words for my husband over my condition. And yet . . .” she opened her mouth to say more, but doing so felt like a betrayal, and she could not find the words.  
  
“What more is there?” Finwë asked gently, taking a seat next to her on the rim of the fountain. “I felt that Fëanáro was holding back from me, and yet, I . . . I hold experience in this regard, and if my worst days can but lessen his pains – _your_ pains – I would count them to be worth the shadow they cast, once more.”  
  
For a moment, she thought that she would not speak – that she _could not_ speak. Yet, she'd held upright underneath this burden for so long now – trying to stand for two as she soothed her husband's mind and fractured fëa with the grace of her own light and strength. Now . . .  
  
The last few decades had been such a strain upon their marriage and their family as a whole. She knew not what her husband's mind was consumed with at times, and ever since he had locked himself away – for nearly six months time – to birth his Silmarils in a fit of seemingly divine inspiration . . . During those days, all she had been able to feel from her husband was such a devouring _light_. She could not reach him - not through speech, nor through the bond that connected their souls. She could not move him from his labours, not even for food or rest for the trance that had taken him, and so, when the Silmarils were at last created and he brought the child of his heart to her with the same love and awe he'd held for the birth of his flesh and blooded sons . . .  
  
Nerdanel had been willing to do anything to return her husband to her then, unsettled as she was by the violence of his soul - taken aback as she was by the incandescent, _fey_ shape of his mind and spirit. So, when he had kissed her, she had fervently kissed him back, wishing, _hoping_ that he would feel her _somewhere_ behind his haze, and remember . . .  
  
But now she bore the fruit of that union, and Fëanáro had retreated even further from her upon learning of their status as expecting parents once more. Though she knew her husband's fear – for her, and disgust – for himself, for putting yet another woman through such a danger – the simple fact of the matter was that she missed him, and felt as if he would just help her through this, then they would come out the stronger for it on the other side. _Together._  
  
She would be no Míriel, Nerdanel thought fiercely; not now, not _ever_. She was strong enough to stand upright underneath the consuming fire that was her husband. She _had_ to be.  
  
“This child was not planned,” she found herself blurting – sharing the secret-most aspects of her marriage as she had not even been able to with her mother. For such was unheard of amongst Elven-kind, with children being a conscious effort and mingling of spirits on behalf of their parents. For his soul just to _take_ , drunk on the creation of the Silmarils, and for hers to so easily _give_ . . .  
  
She found her words gushing forth after that. “The Silmarils were but hours old, and such a fey trance still clung to him . . . I wanted only to break through to him, and from that . . . We had decided for no more children after Curvo for the dangers involved – and our fears are already proven for how this child seemingly _burns_ through me as if seeking to _consume_. Fëanáro cannot hardly look at me now, and I know that it is his own guilt and fear that causes such coldness, but I am tired of standing strong; I am _tired_ of being the supportive one, the one who holds as a caryatid underneath his weight and _understands_. This child is here now, and I need his father to be so too. I cannot . . . I cannot do this alone.”  
  
Her voice faltered, and she felt frustrated tears prick at her eyes like hot pins. “And then . . . I cannot reach my son as I could each of my children before – as I even could for Curufinwë on the worst days of my pregnancy. I cannot touch this child's spirit, and the idea that my son may not be whole or healthy terrifies me. I cannot sleep; I cannot eat for sake of my fears, and _alone_ I am left to suffer through them.”  
  
For her bed was cold of even her husband's _companionship_ , and the bond that had defined her mind for the better part of her existence was now cold and dead of shared thought and tender feeling. More than her husband and mate, she missed her dearest companion and _friend._ Now, to be abandoned to bear up underneath her doubts and fears when she needed Fëanáro as he _was_ , more so than ever . . .  
  
When she looked up, Finwë's eyes were soft, even though he must have thought of Míriel – much as Fëanáro so constantly did. There was ever such a desperation about her husband to prove that he was worthy of the overabundance of spirit his mother had _died_ to give to him. Always desperate had he been to prove himself equal to the loss of a wife to his father - a desperation he felt all the more so when Finwë took his second bride, and fathered children who did not devour their mother in their wake, and from that alone his cold relationship with Indis and her children had stemmed. This she knew – as well as Finwë, she suspected – for the Unbegotten-lord merely looked weary now; quiet and pensive for the fractured lines in his family once more.  
  
“May I?” Finwë nonetheless asked of her, and, understanding his intentions, she took her own hand away from her stomach to make room for his. She let him touch her womb, feeling a comforting coolness seemingly settle on her body for the touch of his spirit, searching, and for that searching, finding . . .  
  
“The reason you cannot touch your son's soul is because you do not carry one child,” Finwë said after a moment, a low, awed note to his voice as he said so. “You carry two; and your searching for one merely confused the children, thus preventing them for answering.”  
  
Nerdanel blinked, taken aback at the news – stunned as she was. Her jaw fell open, and her hand came down to rest next to Finwë's as he guided her, and she felt . . .  
  
“This was one of the things Estë's Maiar first searched for with Míriel, wondering for the inordinate spirit she carried,” Finwë explained. “I will not lie to you and say that yours will be a safe and normal pregnancy, but you may at least assure yourself that your children are healthy. Different . . . unique, perhaps . . . but healthy. As _you_ will be, my daughter, for you are strong, and I have faith that you can do this.”  
  
The tears that had been building in her eyes gave way then, relief for her son – her _sons_ – then overriding her fears for her own well-being. She felt as a bowstring pulled tight and finally released as she gave way to her crying, feeling as Finwë pulled her close, and ran a strong hand through her hair as she buried her head against his chest. Within her good-father burned a fire so much like her husband's that, for a moment, she let the familiarity of his spirit comfort her, and from that comfort she found her strength returned.  
  
A moment later, she drew away again, and wiped at her eyes. She felt determination then fill her anew – for no matter what one would call marred, a _mistake_ , she would never think of her family as such. They were simply uniquely her own, and for the love she held she would continue to fight – even until she had nothing left within her to give.  
  
When Nerdanel stood again, she felt well enough to carry on. She still held a hand to her stomach, greeting the two little lives within her – _two_ – as one awed. Two sons did she now have to carry on and be strong for, no matter the manner in which they were begotten, and she felt the two tiny beings stir as one against her summons. They answered as _one_ , they brushed against her thoughts in a wordless flare of feeling as _one_ , but that too was only something different – something _unique_ – and not to be feared.  
  
Nerdanel breathed in deep, and let her breath out slow. When she bent down to pick up the onyx again, her hands were strong.  
  
She turned, pleased when Finwë fell into step next to her, and offered to carry her burden for her to the gates of Tirion, while, all the while, the stone gaze of Míriel seemed to follow them as they went.


	79. “until the frost steals the bloom away”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Gift_
> 
> Here it is! A few weeks later than I would have liked, but still here. The good news, though? I first intended this to be a grab-bag of several happier snippets, and a few of them turned long - too long to post all together - so I will have more to give you soon to come. For now, I hope that you enjoy this lone piece, and I thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> (And, for those interested, this follows my Caranthir/Haleth arc from chapters 10, 31, 34, 52, 53, 60, and 64.)

**Gift  
  
** In the first days of the following summer, he returned to Haleth's dwelling from a short trip to Amon Ereb to find a veritable sea of yellow flowers awaiting him when he opened the door.  
  
The small, happy blossoms were everywhere – carpeting the floor and perching merrily in vases on every possible surface. Wreathes of the gay blooms hung where the flowers could not be laid or placed in vases, and loose petals were strewn everywhere that remained; turning the view from the doorway into an overwhelming wash of summer yellow and merry green. Their strong, floral scent wafted towards him, assaulting his senses in a wave of unexpected sweetness. Bewildered, Caranthir took in the sight, his eyes seeing, but his mind not quite comprehending what he saw.  
  
Blinking, he set down his bags – his gleanings from Amon Ereb were mostly spices and such fare that the Haladin did not have readily available for their use, for if he was going to cook for his lady, he would do so _properly_ – wondering what . . . and, more importantly, _who_ . . .  
  
“Is this your work?”  
  
He heard Haleth's voice speak in wry amusement from behind him, and he turned in time to receive her kiss in welcome. But, distracted, he could not hold the affection as he instead stepped back and looked on the flowers with a slow suspicion starting to build in his mind.  
  
“This was not my doing,” Caranthir answered slowly. His voice sounded stiff to his own ears, and he felt his face flush when Haleth let loose a sigh – a sigh that was more long-suffering than true annoyance, or so he first thought.  
  
“Mundor,” she let out underneath her breath, passing a hand through the messy plaits of her two braids. “Apparently he understands that his simply _negotiating_ for rights to our northern-most fields will never work; now he seeks a more subtle path to seeing his wishes fulfilled.”  
  
Darkly, Caranthir thought to understand what she implied. Mundor was a widower of three years, and he had two sons grown to his name. Time enough had passed – by mortal estimation – for him to take a new wife, and though Mundor had no need of children or a mother for them, he did, however, have interest enough in Haleth and the power she wielded that . . .  
  
Caranthir had suspected such of the other Chieftain last autumn, when a few of Mundor's jests amongst the men had turned only _just_ too personal. Then, Caranthir had to constrain his own flame of a temper, telling himself that putting an arrow through the mortal's eye would not be viewed as an accident of the hunt, and cause Haleth more trouble than it was worth – no matter that doing so would have satisfied _him_ greatly.  
  
Even now he let loose a sharp breath and stared at the happily smiling blossoms as if they were Morgoth's vilest of machinations. He made fists of his hands, but upon realizing that he did so he relaxed his fingers one by one, trying to smooth his expression and hide away just how his fëa had spiked as a flame against the underside of his senses, so much so, that -  
  
He inhaled sharply when Haleth let loose a low chuckle of laughter. He turned on her, for absolutely nothing about this was amusing, not even in the _slightest_ -  
  
“ - yet, the look on your face is,” she chirped merrily in reply, hearing the thought from his mind as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud. “The One be good, but you are _jealous_ , are you not, Carnistir?”  
  
He was most certainly not _jealous_ , he wanted to protest – offended as he was at merely the thought. But there was a low, dangerous feeling simmering in his veins, and he could feel the worryingly bright cast of his fëa, burning in a way that reminded him too much of his sire, and just how easily he too could _burn_ if he -  
  
\- but no. He clenched his fists again, and forced his more fey emotions down – far down; down until they lined his bones to be forgotten in the darkness of his body. He would think of them no more than that, not even when . . .  
  
But the yellow flowers continued to smile at him, and he simply glared in return, little taken by their charms. “You do not even _like_ yellow,” he muttered, rather than replying outright, and his voice was petulant to his own ears.  
  
At that, Haleth laughed, and when he looked, her eyes were glittering with a bright light. “You _are_ jealous,” she all but crowed, and he turned his glare from the flowers to her.  
  
“I most certainly am not,” he sniffed, offended for her pointing out the truth. He summoned the look of haughty indifference he'd long since perfected for such tortures as the Noldorin court and family gatherings, and used that here now – yet, it did not matter. Haleth was little impressed. She had ever been little impressed by such a countenance, he recalled in a moment of unsummoned fondness.  
  
Shaking her head, Haleth headed further within to touch the petals of one yellow flower. She paused to stare thoughtfully at another rather full vase at eye level. “You know, now you've had but a glimpse of what I have to contend with on a seemingly daily basis.”  
  
“I have no idea of what you speak,” Caranthir followed her to say. Though, when he turned a moody look on the flowers, he would deny it as _sulking_ to the end of his days.  
  
“Do you not?” Haleth raised a brow in question. “You are an exotic specimen to my folk; beautiful even by your own people's standards. If I had a coin for every time a woman at the market turned and giggled, or spoke in whispers while _looking_ – never mind those who actually _tr_ _y_ to entice your eye, then the coffers of the Haladin would be five times what they are now. Your laws and customs are not known here, and there are many who would be more than happy to have you for a night – or more – and have set that as their aim. From Halil to Gweadhes, the latter of whom, you remember - ”  
  
“ - _that_ was an unfortunate misunderstanding. One that was quickly set to rights,” Caranthir felt his face flush red, remembering the particularly bold woman who had cornered him in the stables. He had not been as kind as he could have been in turning her advances away; but his bond with Haleth made even the _idea_ of another woman's touch manifest as a physical discomfort - even pain - and he had not had the presence of mind to turn away her assumptions in a more diplomatic way.  
  
“It was a _misunderstanding_ that I would have liked to address myself,” even now, at merely the memory, Haleth's smokey blue eyes darkened with a fierce light, and her features tightened. “Then, there are women such as Herieth -”  
  
“Herieth?” Caranthir interrupted, bewildered. “She is one of your students; I thought you to be fond of her.”  
  
“I see potential in the girl, and am happy to train her – as I am any girl who aspires to learn the sword and shield,” Haleth said. “But you too saw her talent, and encouraged -”  
  
“ - I,” Caranthir interrupted carefully, feeling as if he suddenly walked a treacherous way, with unsure footing to his path, “was simply aiding with her spear-work. As her learning is a reflection on you, I wished for that reflection to be the best.”  
  
“And the girl is now besotted for it,” Haleth pointed out. “Did you not hear her: Oh, how kind you are, my lord, to take such an interest in _me_ ,” she pitched her voice in a simpering and ridiculous way. “Do you ever think I'll ever be as skilled as you? Perhaps, I shall benefit with more _one on one_ attention, my lord? Are all the Elves as attentive to their arts? Are all of your people _truly_ so fair as - ”  
  
“ - the poor child was simply being kind,” Caranthir interrupted before she could say more. “And did she truly say all of that?” this he had to ask - for he could not remember himself, distracted as he had been from where Haleth had been showing another girl through her sword forms. The unseasonably warm day had them shucking steel and leather, and he had admired how thin linen she wore moved and clung to her body as -  
  
“All the while fluttering her eyes and leaning forward like so?” Haleth interrupted his fond recollections to demonstrate a truly ridiculous exaggeration of what he supposed was to be a beguiling pose.  
  
“I did not notice anything so ridiculous from Herieth,” seeing so, he could not help but tease.  
  
“Yet,” Haleth pointed out, pushing at his shoulder in retaliation for his teasing, “ _I_ did.” Her look then softened, and her tone sobered as she continued in all seriousness, “And she . . . Herieth is young, and she is beautiful – more beautiful than I ever could have claimed to be, even in my youth. And her beauty is more than the physical – she is strong, loyal, and caring – any man would be lucky to be the object of her affections. And . . . though I know there will only ever be _one_ for you, my claim to your heart is one that no one else knows, and to simply watch, while able to say nothing . . . it is as a burning, sometimes, and it chafes against me.”  
  
For that, he could not speak in reply – for there was a part of him that was still selfish in his longing, and with a fey possessiveness, he wished for more than she could give. But that part of himself would only ruin what blessings he did have, along with the time in which he had to enjoy them; as such, they were thoughts he tried not to dwell on whenever he could prevent it. He'd needed not say anything, however, when Haleth instead _felt_ the truth from his mind, no matter his intentions for silence.  
  
“I am bound to you for the rest of my immortal days,” Caranthir said instead of addressing the thought she had gleaned – the thought that wanted for _more_ than their stolen moments, their mere _fraction_ of the already few years they had allotted to them. “I can never choose another; and never do I wish to. But Mundor . . . you . . . if you wished it to be so . . .” He faltered, but could not quite force the words from his tongue, impossible as they were to speak.  
  
Yet Haleth understood him nonetheless. Her look turned closed, and her eyes narrowed with a hard edge. Her body took on a stiff, brittle demeanor – allowing him to tell her hurt only from the way her spirit flickered against his own as if bruised. “And you think that because such is not a physical _impossibility_ for me I would be so faithless as to abuse the gift of your love, even while being aware of the full implications of your binding yourself to me? You think that your doing so is something I do not cherish, and look on in awe for, even now?”  
  
He believed no such thing – truly, it was not even a flickering of doubt for him, not even in his darkest moments. Yet . . . “You would do what is best for your people,” he returned as a truth, his voice falling strangely flat as he spoke. “What _you_ wish, what _I_ wish, will ever fall second to that. Such is what I thought to long understand, and accept. Yet, if your doing so includes one such as Mundor . . .” Caranthir swallowed, but could not finish his thought; not for how it burned against him as something consuming – the sort of spark that spawned the fires that swallowed forests. If ever she did so, he did not know _how_ he would react, and he hoped that it would never come to that.  
  
Her look softened for his words, and he then felt as a different sort of weariness settled over her. Her shoulders slumped, and for a moment he was left to notice how much time had touched her since first he met her, showing where, someday . . .  
  
“Mundor fights a paltry skirmish where a war has already been waged and won,” she finally settled for saying. “I have given much for my people, and _this_ I would selfishly keep for myself for as long as I may. I honor my father and brother by leading the Haladin as best I may, but please believe me when I say that you are my joy in this life, and for knowing such when I so long gave up on ever . . .” she faltered, but he could feel the breadth of her affection rise from her spirit. He turned his senses, letting himself bask in her love and contentment and _belonging_ – soothing every raw and pained place his fëa had known but a moment before - and he exhaled with a matching peace of his own. He breathed out, and let his doubts and flickerings of discontentment go.  
  
He had no words to answer her, but he did let his spirit wrap comfortingly about her own, and when he leaned down to kiss her he felt relief wash through her mind like rain after a hot, dry day. Perhaps such thoughts were a circle they would ever find themselves returning to, but for now . . . for now, he was here, and she was with him – warm and welcoming and _Haleth –_ and he held her closer as if he could drink her in and keep her there forever to stay. It did not matter that the yellow flowers stared, pressing in around them, for _she_ had chosen, and for as long as he was so blessed, he would cherish the gift of that blessing.  
  
Even so, he pulled away sooner than he would have liked – smugly noting how Haleth made a noise of protest in the back of her throat, and moved as if to draw his mouth back down to hers again. But he evaded her, and could not help but smile as he said, “Later,” in a low voice, rich with promise. “For now, the scent of these flowers is offending me. And I want them gone.”  
  
  



	80. "lay me down to sleep"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanor & Fingolfin, Fingolfin & Aredhel || Prompt: _Duty, Paranoia_
> 
> Because this family kills me dead . . . enjoy. :)

**Duty**  
  
Since his earliest memories, Fëanáro found it difficult to sleep in his father's house.  
  
When he was a young child, a sort of all encompassing panic used to come over him during the night. When he was asleep he could not _feel_ his father as he could while awake, and with the irrational fears borne by his child's mind he worried that his father would fade away in the dark, the same as his mother had. No amount of reasoning could sooth him from this belief, and he only stopped visiting Finwë's rooms in the dead of the night when _she_ took up occupancy there.  
  
The first time he found them together, his father had stuttered to explain that he had merely fallen asleep while talking to an old friend – but Fëanáro had been unmoved, only able to quietly shake with an anger that had then seemed too big for his bones as he glared at the hatefully beautiful woman who sat on the edge of the bed where his mother should have sat. Indis had not lowered her gaze in shame or guilt, but rather, had looked him fully in the eye with such a sympathy that it had been as a blow to see. He did not grant Indis the respect of looking her in the eyes after that, hating how she seemed to always to be looking for . . .  
  
. . . but Míriel was gone now, didn't she know? Fëanáro had burned her up until she was nothing more than smoke on the breeze, and now his father had perverted the laws and customs of their people to take a new wife to replace her, to sire new children who would not _burn_ and _consume_ , but rather love and adore as children should. Always overly sensitive, the too-hot cast of his soul could feel them even now; he could feel his father as he stared at the ceiling, pondering some petty squabble of the court while still holding Indis, who dreamed about a starlit land across the Sea. Their spirits mingled together as a white light to his senses, even though they never truly _merged_ , lost as a piece would ever be between them. Fëanáro never paused over them for too long – truly, such awareness on his part was why he preferred dwelling anywhere but his father's house whenever he could – but, unsummoned, his breathing matched Findis' as she tossed and turned in the night, soothing his half-sister's sleep without truly meaning to do so. Then his eyes snapped open when he next felt his half-brother, not in his own bed, but rather -  
  
“I,” he summoned the most imperious voice he could, though his efforts were made groggy by the lingering hands of slumber, “am asleep, child.”  
  
“Yet,” as wise as his name would imply, Nolofinwë sagely pointed out, “you are speaking to me. Thus, you are awake; I can feel you.”  
  
Unmoved by the child's logic, he pointedly turned his face into his pillow. “If you need something,” he rumbled, wincing as he tried to remember if Nolofinwë's control of his bladder had matured since the last time he dwelt in Tirion. There he most certainly drew the line in aiding Indis' offspring – his father's blood or not. “Perhaps, your mother . . .”  
  
“This is not something for Amil to tend,” Nolofinwë whispered in reply.  
  
“Then,” Fëanáro fought the urge he had to sigh, but lost, “your _father_.”  
  
“Atar . . .” Nolofinwë started in an unsure way. Finally, Fëanáro cracked one eye open, and saw his brother with his gaze downcast and his little face twisted into a mask that tried too hard for grave serenity. His thumb and middle finger tapped together restlessly in a trait Fëanáro recognized from their father when he pondered how to say something ill to the asking. “I do not want to rouse him, merely to say that I am . . .”  
  
Fëanáro felt a wave of misery from the child, fast on the heels of an acidic spiral of _fear_ – one that battered his senses and drew forth the barest wisp of concern, no matter how quickly he moved to swallow the sensation away.  
  
“There are Orcs underneath my bed, I am sure of it,” Nolofinwë revealed on a whisper. “They are waiting for me – and I cannot tell Atar. I do not want him to think . . .” that he was less than his older brother, than he was not equal to _her_ son, Fëanáro felt from his half-brother's mind, such as could never be spoken aloud. The boy truly thought that he had never sought out their father in the dark hours of the night, he gleaned with a black sort of humor. He did not intend on adjusting the child's knowing any time soon.  
  
“There are no Orcs this side of the Sea; the Valar would not allow it,” Fëanáro settled on saying. Pointedly, he closed his eyes – again. “Now leave me be, and go back to sleep.”  
  
“But I asked Findis,” Nolofinwë's words took on a desperate edge as he entreated. “She said that you were right – that you were not just telling stories. She said that some of the Quendi were stolen on the Great Journey, and they were . . . ” he drew in a deep breath; Fëanáro could feel it rattle in the child's lungs. “I dreamed that you were taken,” he continued in a small voice. “I dreamed that you were scarred and nearly unrecognizable in your ruin, with true fire in your gaze. You . . . you tried to take me too to Utumno . . . you did not hear me say that I was your brother, no matter how I shouted.”  
  
_Half-brother_ , he swallowed the automatic correction, feeling it rest on the back of his tongue like the flat of a blade. “Wouldn't Indis tell you to simply pray to Irmo for better dreams?” he returned instead, the edges of his syllables cutting.  
  
“I tried,” Nolofinwë replied simply, unhearing to the thinly veiled scorn in his voice. “Irmo is not listening to me this night. But, _you_ can . . .”  
  
He looked at him, and his eyes were very, very wide, filled with such a trust and adoration that Fëanáro could not first understand. He had done nothing to foster the child's love for him – truly, he had done all that he could to stay far from his father's halls since Findis' birth, first staying with Rúmil the Lore-master and then King Olwë on the seashore. Now, with his appeal to Master Mahtan, asking the copper-smith to take him on as an apprentice . . .  
  
He swallowed away the flame rising from the core of him, the molten fire of his spirit seemingly settling in his hands and in his mind, ever driving him on and on and asking for more, ever _more_. Sternly, he told himself that he only had a little while longer to wait, and then he could leave his father's second family behind again. Such thoughts curbed that flame, banking the fires of his fëa, but only just barely, and someday he feared . . .  
  
. . . would his fire burn out like Míriel's had? What, first, would it consume in its wake?  
  
But such thoughts were macabre, and they did not bear thinking about during the unwaking hours. Instead, he merely sighed, and looked on Nolofinwë's hopeful face again.  
  
He would not allow Indis' son to stay the night with him, but neither did he want his father to know that he was telling a child so young tales about Orcs and the dread Vala even now locked away in Námo's halls. No, that would not do at all.  
  
Sighing, Fëanáro pulled himself upright, and reached in the dark for his tunic. When he glanced, Nolofinwë's eyes were very bright in the shadows, looking at him with an unsullied adoration. He could not bear such an expression for long, and after a heartbeat, he turned away.  
  
“You will vanquish the fiend, then?” Nolofinwë chirped as they left the room, and Fëanáro fought the urge he had to roll his eyes and call the child a fool.  
  
Instead, he said nothing as Nolofinwë trotted dutifully behind him, carefully walking only where the darkness of the night was lit by Telperion's light; streaming through the large, yawning windows in dancing ribbons of silver and blue.  
  
He gestured to the bed when they arrived in his half-brother's rooms, and Nolofinwë dutifully climbed in again. He held himself very stiffly, however, and he determinedly stared at the ceiling as Fëanáro knelt and looked underneath the bed. There was nothing there, as expected.  
  
But Nolofinwë's eyes were still tightly shut, and his small fingers were white about the sheets he fisted in his hands.  
  
“There is nothing there,” Fëanáro reported drolly.  
  
“They will come as soon as you are gone,” Nolofinwë whispered, little placated. “They always come back.”  
  
Fëanáro looked down, torn between leaving the child to his fears, and . . .  
  
Sighing, he raked a hand through his hair before moving to light one of the small candles on the bedside stand. Curiously, Nolofinwë opened one eye to watch him, and then asked, “What are you doing?”  
  
“Creatures of the dark ever fear the light,” Fëanáro answered after a moment. “This will stop Orcs or anything else from causing you harm.”  
  
“Truly?” Nolofinwë asked, looking on the candle as if it was one of Varda's own stars.  
  
Fëanáro set the candle down, and inclined his head. “It is what Atar used to do for me,” was all he would say. That small light, the tiniest reflection of the inferno that burned inside of him – that matched the great fire of his father's Unbegotten soul - was an assurance in the night, a _promise_ , and now . . .  
  
Fëanáro told himself that he did so only so that he could sleep in peace, but he could not so easily explain why he sat in one of the nearby chairs, and gestured for Nolofinwë to lay down again.  
  
“I'll stay here until you fall asleep,” he said, all the while telling himself that such was his duty, and nothing more. “After I am gone, I will leave the light on.”  
  
And Nolofinwë looked very small against the expanse of his bed, he thought, with the sea of sheets all but drowning him. “Promise?” even so, the child's voice trembled.  
  
A heartbeat passed, long and waiting. “I promise,” Fëanáro nonetheless swore his oath, and settled in for the night.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Paranoia**  
  
His daughter was certain that there were monsters in her closet.  
  
He opened his eyes as he felt Irissë's distress; drawing himself up from the comfortable oblivion of sleep, even as Anairë's hand lightly touched his shoulder and encouraged him to return to his dreams.  
  
“I am sorry, Amil,” Irissë whispered solemnly when she noticed her mother doing so. “But Atar must see to this.”  
  
Nolofinwë touched Anairë's hand in return, thankful for her efforts, and caught a wry thought from his wife that said that while her prayers for a daughter were finally answered, the Valar seemed to have given her three sons who adored their father, even so.  
  
_But at least she wears her dresses while she tromps through the mud and brings home baby squirrels to raise in her room_ , Nolofinwë could not help but tease, and he caught a wave of long-suffering amusement from Anairë. _She is ever asking you to braid ribbons in her hair._  
  
_She is ever wearing her_ white _dresses as she treks through the mire, and she has long professed that Findekáno can braid her hair better than I. She has no need of her mother_ , Anairë returned with fond exasperation. _Sometimes I think our daughter is a Changeling; a Laiquendi child from across the Sea, stolen in amongst our own children._  
  
_Then_ , Nolofinwë could not help but return, _blessed are we that Oromë left her amongst our fold, are we not?_  
  
In reply, he felt only a wave of affection from his wife, one that lingered with him even as he rose to dutifully escort Irissë back to her rooms, ready to slay whatever beast was lurking in the shadows.  
  
“Which is it this time, my Ar-Fánawen?” he asked into the darkness of the corridor. “A dragon? A warg?”  
  
Her small fingers flexed where he held her hand in his own. Very solemnly, she stared into the night, glaring at whatever unseen foe may have been lurking with untoward intentions. “There are Orcs in my closet,” she revealed, but for all of the forced strength to her posture, her voice trembled over the revelation.  
  
Nolofinwë blinked, wondering where she could have heard tales of their mutilated kindred across the Sea. Besides the time or two Turukáno had called his little sister an Orc in irritation whenever her exuberant ways infringed on his rather meticulous habits – and been suitably reprimanded, in return – he could think of nothing . . .  
  
“Tyelkormo told me that the Hunter would take Quendi from the Great Journey, and twist them into . . . into _monsters_ ,” Irissë whispered on the wings of his thoughts. “After, they would come back, looking for others to ensnare as they were so ensnared.”  
  
Nolofinwë sighed, resigned to having – yet another – talk with his half-brother about his son's influence on his daughter.  
  
“Which,” Irissë tilted her head to the side, “I would not immediately believe, because Tyelko is _Tyelko_ , but Curvo agreed with him, and Curvo knows _everything_. They even had scrolls from Grandfather's study proving such a thing – Rúmil penned them in his old script, and Rúmil is . . .” she faltered, unsure how to phrase what she wished to say.  
  
Rúmil had escaped the clutches of the Hunter through efforts of his own father and Elwë, but not before glimpsing the fate of their stolen kindred. Ever was that knowledge a burden on the Lore-master, his father had explained when he first learned about the _Urqui_ in his own childhood. At the next feast, Nolofinwë had been hard-pressed to look on Rúmil without staring at the upraised welts on his face, knowing that his long sleeves and too-high collar hid even more than that – with each mark standing as a memento of the process that would have distorted both his hröa and his fëa had he not been delivered from the Dark One's hands.  
  
“And now they are in my closet, and I cannot close my eyes knowing they are there,” Irissë whispered, the pulse of her spirit quite miserable as she confided in him. “They are waiting for me to fall asleep so they may take me away too; I know it.”  
  
“Yet, Aman is fenced against such an evil, my child. Their shadow cannot touch you here,” Nolofinwë gently assured her as they turned into her room. As she returned to her bed, scooting as far back from the closet as she could, he dutifully opened the doors and looked about, seeing nothing but for the natural shadows of the night.  
  
“Yet, we can swim, so why not Orcs?” she asked with a child's logic. “If they _were_ Quendi, they cannot forget everything they once were.”  
  
“Yet, even the strongest Telerin swimmer cannot cross the Sea, and, more than that, the Valar protect us here; they keep us safe. We have nothing to worry over, nor concern ourselves for, so long as we dwell underneath their care,” the words fell off his tongue by rote, and he swallowed away the aftertaste they left.  
  
A heartbeat passed before he closed the closet doors again, and came to sit on the edge of his daughter's bed. Irissë looked doubtful, but said, “I suppose that's true,” nonetheless. Even so, she kept her eyes trained on the door of her closet, and narrowed her gaze as if staring down a foe. “You are certain there was nothing there?” she asked again, biting her lip.  
  
“I am absolutely certain,” Nolofinwë assured, reaching over to turn her head so that he could meet her eyes. While she was still watching him, he then leaned over to light the small candle waiting on the bedside stand. Its small, warm glow lit up a corner of the night, and illuminated his daughter's blinking eyes as she adjusted to the light.  
  
“What are you doing?” Irissë asked curiously, leaning towards the flickering of flame.  
  
“This is merely a precaution,” Nolofinwë answered. “Creatures of the Shadow do not care for the light. And this,” he gestured to the candle, “is but a reflection of what you hold inside of you. Here.” He tapped the left side of his chest, even as he reached out to brush his daughter's spirit through their bond, ensuring that she understood. “And your soul is a bright, bright light – the brightest such light you may use when you wage such a fight. Never forget that when you are lost in dark places, even if they be only within your mind.”  
  
For all of her bold, indomitable ways, his daughter had never cared for the dark – even in the slightest – and though she was of an age where she would force herself to keep to her own bed the whole night through, the simple fact remained that when he awakened in the night and instinctively reached out to assure himself of his family's wellbeing, she was often awake and staring at the shadows as if waiting for them to surge forward and consume her. Often were the nights when he would touch her spirit with what light he could, and wait for her to succumb to sleep and dreams before finding his own rest once more.  
  
Irissë leaned forward, and the candle painted shapes of gold over her pale skin. Thoughtfully, she tilted her head. “Did your Atar used to do this for you?” she finally asked, glancing up at him.  
  
“Fëanáro did once,” he answered without first considering his reply. “Though I think that my Atar used to do so for him,” this he muttered, mostly as an afterthought.  
  
Even so, Irissë looked dubious as she said, “Uncle Fëanáro cannot be afraid of _anything_ ," she protested. "He is . . .” she waved a hand, unable to articulate her thoughts with the words she had available to her. Yet, he understood.  
  
“He was a child once, just as you are now,” Nolofinwë countered, knowing that it was a foolish, blind person who believed that Fëanáro knew no fear. Sometimes his half-brother's fears seemed fit to drown them all, and ever were those fears a shared reflection - a mirror, thrown the opposite way as they bent the light – in his own mind.  
  
Irissë still did not look as if she believed him, but she settled back down dutifully, arranging herself so that she laid on the very edge of her pillow – as close as she could get to the light on the bedside stand.  
  
She clearly hesitated, and so, he did not make her speak of her wishes before vowing, “I will stay here until you fall asleep.”  
  
“Promise?” her voice was a small wisp of sound. She stared at the candle with an unblinking gaze, watching the small, brave light as it fought back the night.  
  
“I promise,” he replied, reaching over to touch her brow and comb a hand back comfortingly through her hair. “Nothing will harm you while you are mine to protect.”  
  
Irissë inhaled, and when she let out her breath, it sounded easier from her lungs. Her tight grip on her sheets relaxed, and after a long moment she closed her eyes. Eventually, all of the coiled stress left her tiny body, and her face softened into a peaceful countenance that spoke of a truly deep sleep. Reflexively, he reached out to Irmo, asking the Vala to watch over his daughter though her dreams, and protect her where he could not follow.  
  
After his prayer was finished, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder as a wave of greeting gently brushed against his spirit.  
  
Reflexively, he reached up to cover his wife's hand with his own, and smiled a tired smile to say, “I spoke truly when I said that I did not mind staying up with her. You need not have stirred yourself.”  
  
“I had to make certain, even so. I could not find my own slumber without first doing so,” Anairë whispered, kneeling by her daughter's bedside as she spoke. Much as he just had, she touched her daughter's brow before soothing back her hair, and he felt as she too entreated Irmo, wishing for nothing more of the dark to touch her child that night.  
  
When she glanced at the flickering candle, the flame caught in her eyes, and she tilted her head.  
  
“To keep away untoward creatures until dawn,” Nolofinwë explained, and Anairë nodded.  
  
“A wise solution,” she approved, gleaning the memory from his mind even when he had not intended to share it. “It was a kindness to do so for you.”  
  
“It wasn't kindness, but duty that moved him,” Nolofinwë did not quite agree. He frowned before trying to lighten his thoughts – not wanting to unintentionally press down on his daughter's spirit with the weight of his own burdens. “And yet,” still, he could not keep from whispering, “he was not required to stay the whole night through. I try to remember that when . . .” He swallowed, and shook his head. “Yet, it does not matter; and tomorrow any such inklings of prior kindness will most certainly be forgotten - I must speak with Fëanáro about his son's behavior, once again.”  
  
Anairë's dark brow furrowed, and she sighed when he shared Tyelkormo's tales of Orcs with a brush of thought. She shook her head, and though her frustration was a cool thing, it was still a true anger, nonetheless. She exhaled, and tucked away her feeling so, much as he had.  
  
Rather than voicing her thoughts on their daughter's strange attachment to her half-cousins, she touched Irissë's brow one last time before arranging herself so that she could fold her arms and rest her own head against the mattress. Reflexively, he went to run his fingers over her shoulders in a soothing motion, moving her long hair away so that it would not tangle.  
  
“You need not stay,” he whispered. “You will regret sleeping in that position by morning.”  
  
“I have borne worse discomforts for my children before,” Anairë dismissed his concern with a voice that was already lined with sleep. She closed her eyes. “And few will be the times to come when I can aid my daughter in such a way; this even I can foresee.”  
  
Nolofinwë inclined his head, but did not protest her presence more than that. Instead, he felt a flare of affection fill him – such as he had not first expected to find in his marriage, and had considered himself blessed to know since then. Swallowing away his words to the contrary, he continued to run a gentle hand over his wife's shoulders, and waited for her too to fall asleep. All the while, he lingered as the night continued on and the candle burned itself down; remaining as a silent sentinel against the darkness and shadowed dreams.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Ar-Fanawen** : Quenya for Ar-Feiniel, an alternate name for Aredhel meaning noble-white-lady.  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Curufinwë, Curvo** : Curufin  
>  **Urqui** : Quenya for Orcs  
>  **Elwe** : Thingol


	81. "shall chase us round and round"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon/Elenwë & Ensemble || Prompt: _Overindulgence_
> 
> Because the tragedy of these two just breaks my heart, and I've gone quite a while without sharing a bit of my head-canon on the subject. So, yes . . . beware the head-canon in this update, for there's lots of it. ;)

There was, admittedly, a rather impressive throbbing building in his temples; one that would not leave him be as Telperion waned and Laurelin waxed to take her place in the morning sky above Valmar.  
  
For all of the soft, demure gatherings that King Ingwë's court professed to enjoy, there were rather strong spirits in their cups to battle such a quiet reveling – stronger than those preferred in Finwë's court, even, which Turukáno had learned caution for early on in life. Normally, he knew to sip on one glass and one glass alone the whole night through, but busying himself with his goblet of wine had been an apt distraction the night before – a very, very apt distraction, indeed, to keep himself from staring overly much at _her_.  
  
It became a pattern with him: avoid her eyes, which he could not tell for a shade of green or brown from the opposite side of the hall – take a sip of wine; avoid staring at the dark gold of her hair, with the crown tightly braided in the Vanyarin style while the lower mass was left to flow freely – take a sip of wine; avoid looking up every time she laughed, every time she smiled, every time her pale yellow silks fluttered and -  
  
Turukáno took yet another sip of wine, and stood awkwardly off to the side of Ingwë's ballroom. He was alone, abandoned first by his friend when Findaráto noticed his own Vanyarin maid in the crowd, and next forsaken by his siblings when they sought out their half-cousins - this eve being a peaceful cease-fire between their families with Fëanáro refusing to step foot in the court where Indis had once led at her brother's side, though his convenient excuse of the younger Curufinwë's preparation for Aulë's trials was the more diplomatic reason he offered their host for his absence. The great hall was all shades of warm cream and blushing gold, famously lit by fourteen-thousand candles, floating in spiraling chandeliers to throw long shadows from the dancing couples upon the rose veined, marble floor below. Though he had never been particularly fond of dancing himself, he had the strong impulse to ask _her_ to dance, even without knowing her name. Strangely, he felt as if there was a tether binding him to her, drawing him forward when he would much rather stand still and let the evening pass in peace.  
  
He was taking another sip of wine, contemplating just when – and _if_ – he should make a move to actually engage her in conversation, when he felt a familiar presence come to stand next to him.  
  
“You have fine taste, little one,” although he had long since grown to be more than a full head taller than Findekáno, his elder brother still delighted in addressing him as such, and Turukáno merely stood very, very straight as his sibling looped an arm about his shoulders and squeezed affectionately. Unlike himself, Findekáno was more than happy to partake in the Vanyar's honey-wine to excess, and he was already well into his cups – with his eyes shining and his mouth quicker to give smiles than usual. Yet, from experience, he also knew that his brother would be just fine come morning light, with none of the night's revelries lingering to plague his health upon the morrow. It was, Turukáno reflected, quite unfair.  
  
“She is one of Hellendur's daughters, is she not?” Findekáno continued in a merry tone of voice. “Ingwë speaks highly of him, as does Grandfather – he is one of the few of Manwë's priests who sing out of true reverence, rather than to see whose voice can raise the highest during morning prayer. Such an unfortunate faulting has kept him from the title of High-priest for many years, now.”  
  
“Yet,” at his brother's side – not imbibing himself, and carefully standing as a sentinel for when Findekáno would inevitability imbibe _too_ much - Maitimo could not help but wryly point out, “half of the bells in this city are Hellendur's doing, and while Makalaurë can go on and on about the genius of their arrangement, I must confess that three days of their tolling is already three days enough for me.”  
  
“Spoil-sport,” Findekáno waved a hand in dismissal. “Your penchant for ill-placed gravitas and brooding unfit for company is only matched by Turvo here. Take another sip for courage, brother, and then ask the maid to dance.”  
  
“There is no need for courage; for I was not staring, and I am not keen on dancing,” Turukáno nonetheless rumbled into his goblet. If he looked up again, he knew his eyes would betray him.  
  
Predictably, Findekáno frowned. “Even _Amil_ is dancing with Atar,” he protested. “And no one cares more than you about not musing their garments or stirring a hair from its place than our mother.”  
  
“There is nothing wrong with wanting to present an image that will reflect well onto our father and grandfather,” for that, he looked pointedly at his brother, who was slouching in an undignified way as he restlessly swirled his wine in his glass.  
  
“The only image that your dancing will disprove is the one that paints the House of Nolofinwë as a stiff bunch of unfeeling prudes,” Findekáno snorted to say.  
  
“Forgive me for saying that we already have Irissë to disprove that for us,” Turukáno returned drolly – for their sister had already dragged Tyelkormo away when Ingwion mentioned his father's collection of antique spears from the Great Journey, and she had been quite vocal and pointed about her doing so. Tyelkormo – little interested in seeing anything of worth amongst Indis' kinsmen - had been unmoved until Irissë's sharp tongue had him rethinking his courtesies. Such had amused the Vanyarin prince, but, others . . . “You,” he recovered himself, looking his brother up and down, “are a debatable reflection one way or the other, as always.”  
  
Findekáno shrugged, little touched by the censor in his voice. “I am a _true_ reflection, at least - not a mask donned for the sake of others. I will bring honor to my father's name, but I will also dance and drink and enjoy myself on nights held specifically for such a reason. Perhaps _I_ will ask your pretty Vanya to dance; we look well enough alike, and if she ignores the mere difference of our heights, she may even pretend I'm _you_.”  
  
Even the _idea_ brought an unexpected flare of brightness in his spirit, and he had to fight the instinct to curl his lip and narrow his eyes, fey as it was. He settled for merely clutching the stem of his glass tighter in hand; the fine crystal pressured, but not breaking, from his strength. Findekáno smiled when he felt but a shadow of his aggravation, triumphant.  
  
“I do not know how to ask her,” at last Turukáno sighed to say. His words were more muttered into his cup than spoken to his brother.  
  
“Oh, but that truly is the simplest of endeavors. You do like so,” this Findekáno patted him on the back to say, all of the good humor returned to his voice. Still expertly balancing his wine glass in hand, he turned to Maitimo and bowed with an elaborate flourish. “Dear maiden, but your beauty has caught my eye this eve, and I would enjoy nothing more than leading you in the next dance if you are not otherwise engaged.” He smiled a devastating smile, and his pale grey eyes glittered impishly as he waited for a reply.  
  
“I do not make a habit of dancing with men who smell like distilleries,” Maitimo raised a scarlet brow, sounding bored as he took up his role. Findekáno straightened with a scowl – the slightest bit uneasy with his balance. “My mother raised me better than that, you know.”  
  
“You see?” with a glower, Findekáno ignored his friend in order to turn back to him. “Simple.”  
  
“You are drunk, Finno,” Maitimo sighed to counsel, “And Turvo is right, in the very least, that our siblings are already reinforcing the rather . . . flamboyant reputation held by the House of Finwë this eve. You need not add to their tales.”  
  
“I am not drunk _yet_ ,” Findekáno protested. He took a step as if to prove himself true, and stumbled in an unflattering way. “Alas . . . perhaps I _should_ seek out water the rest of the night,” he finally admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose as he blinked in an attempt to clear his head. “I always seem to underestimate the potency of Vanyarin spirits until they quite literally land me on my back.”  
  
“Unless you want a repeat of the spring meet at Olwë's halls, perhaps some fresh air will do you good?” Maitimo suggested, and upon meeting his older cousin's eyes, Turukáno understood that the distraction was for his own sake, as much as it was for Findekáno's well-being.  
  
“Yes, yes,” his brother gave a long-suffering sigh, the candlelight catching on the gold in his braids as he shook his head in lamentation. “Here, brother,” he turned to give him his still half-full glass. “This will do you more good than I, it seems.”  
  
Rolling his eyes in amused exasperation, Maitimo then turned Findekáno towards the exit. But, as his cousin passed, he whispered, “Nonetheless, you should ask her, Turvo,” and touched his shoulder briefly in fondness before steering his brother out.  
  
Turukáno watched them go, gathering his courage all the while. Yet, when he glanced back to where the Vanyarin woman had been standing, he was dismayed to notice that she too was gone. He looked, but could not find the shape of her smile or the light of her eyes anywhere else in the crowd. Fighting away the sinking feeling in his stomach, he threw back the rest of his glass before finishing his brother's too. The gathering then lost much of its luster for him, and he saw no reason to linger for long afterward.  
  
The next morning, he was awakened from his rather massive headache by Findekáno shaking his shoulder in an all too cheerful manner. While Turukáno was certain that there was one of Melkor's Maiar of Flame dancing behind his skull, Findekáno looked sickeningly untouched by the night's festivities – with clear eyes and a healthy color to his cheeks as he merrily proclaimed that they would be late to the Changing of the Trees if he did not get up and ready himself.  
  
Groaning, he turned further into his pillow, content to ignore Findekáno completely – that was, until his brother threatened to send _Irissë_ in to wake him, and at that Turukáno grudgingly conceded the need to leave his bed behind – that was, as soon as he could convince his limbs and befuddled mind to cooperate with him.  
  
When his brother asked about his maid from the night before – truly, even, with no humor assigned to his voice – he frowned and shooed his sibling away with a supreme effort, given the way his stomach was still turning sickly.  
  
Unfortunately, the endless tolling of the bells and the numerous singing voices that accompanied the Vanyar's morning worship wreaked havoc on his head, no matter the wonder of the Trees right before his eyes. Though he knew the ways of the Vanyar from his grandmother, and appreciated the beauty of their devotion, he was not inclined to such abasing piety himself – indulging in rituals _they_ had created to honor the Valar, but were never asked to observe outright. It sat oddly with him, worshiping the Ainur in such an obsessive way, and rather would he incline his head to Eru and quietly thank the One for his gifts than spend hours in prayer and devotion to those who had welcomed the Firstborn to the West as friends; who served the Creator just as their fellow creation served. Hating that he looked to be an ungracious guest, he turned from the daily ritual and walked back towards the city gates before choosing another path completely – suddenly eager as he was for the fresh air and blessed _naturalness_ of the hills just before the Holy Mountain, certain then that he needed nothing more to clear his head.  
  
Yet, his path that day seemed to be a doomed one. There was thunder coming from where the clouds darkened to obscure the summit of the mountain, and he felt the telling first drops of rain when he continued on the path through the steep grassy hills and their blankets of wandering wildflowers. Yet, as close to Taniquetil as they were, even the storms were beautiful, awe-inspiring things. The sky never _truly_ turned grey as it did in the north and south of Aman; instead it merely flushed a dark shade of gold as every falling drop of water glittered and caught the light of the Trees as if they were gemstones, dancing to meet the ground below. The land was alive for the blessing of the rain, singing in thanks to the heavens as the trees stretched their roots and the flowers turned their faces in welcome to the life giving water.  
  
As such, Turukáno refused to turn around. Instead, he too welcomed the rain, content as he was to focus on the pulse of the world around him, rather than the throbbing of his temples - so much so that, when he came to a bend in the path, he almost did not notice the woman already sitting there.  
  
Well, perhaps _sitting_ was not the precise term he could have used. The poor woman was soaked from head to toe, with green staining the fawn tones of her dress, and mud spattered onto her face and hands. She had one boot off to examine her ankle, which looked swollen and red, even from a distance, and was muttering underneath her breath all the while. Glancing, he noticed a path of crushed foliage that told of where she had slipped and slid from the crest of the hill above them.  
  
Finding that his head rapidly cleared for the possibility of there being assistance he could provide, he came closer to her and asked, “Good lady, are you well?”  
  
She did not turn to him to reply, “All but for my pride, I fear. I have walked these hills a hundred times before, and never once have I - ” but she then turned, and her voice faltered as her eyes widened, and she stammered out, “ _You_.”  
  
He blinked from where he had been enjoying the warm Vanyarin lilt to her voice, and was only then struck by the familiarity of her features. Here was the woman from the night before, with her honey coloured hair crinkled from the braids she'd earlier worn, though the rain was making quick work of chasing her curls away, and her eyes a stunning shade of green now that he was close enough to see. No, they were green and a golden shade of brown, he amended after a second glance, like Laurelin's light shining through a leafy canopy.  
  
“My lady,” he stammered a bit awkwardly. Absurdly, he gave a half bow in greeting, no matter the steady pulse of the rain and her prone state on the ground before him. “Forgive me for not first recognizing you, I did not think that one of Hellendur's daughters would be far from the Changing this morn.”  
  
“You have heard those bells toll for three days time; try a lifetime of them,” was her wry answer in reply. She raised a dark brow, and he hoped that it was bemusement he saw in her gaze, more so than outright _amusement_. “And, besides, who is to say that I am not at worship? Albeit in a different way, I grant you.” She looked back down at her ankle again, and winced when her probing fingers found a particularly tender spot. “Though,” she could not help but add, “perhaps I am being rewarded for my heathen ways as we speak.”  
  
She winced again, and returned her attention to her ankle. For seeing so, Turukáno did not think before kneeling down next to her, quite uncaring for what the wet hillside would do to the white of his robes. She looked up as he did so, a question in her eyes.  
  
“I am quite unfamiliar with such injuries, so I do not know if it is strained or broken. All I know is that I cannot walk,” she admitted with a flush to her cheeks. “I must confess that this is the most _adventure_ I have had in quite some time, you see.”  
  
“I have a younger sister who has been getting herself in and out of such trouble since she learned to walk, or so it sometimes seems,” this he smiled to say, unable to wholly keep the fondness from his voice, long-suffering though it was. “For some reason she tends to come to me with cuts and scrapes, and for her doing so I have some experience with such injuries, if I may?”  
  
The woman blinked, and after a moment's hesitation she moved her own hands aside so that he could see to her wound. Taking in a deep breath – for the thoughtless ease that ever came with seeing to Irissë and her injuries was now strained as he became acutely aware of the delicate shape of her ankle and the long stretch of her calf, visible nearly to her knee from where she had raised the hem of her dress. Exhaling, he softly touched her skin, trying to clinically discern between a sprain and a break without trailing his fingertips and marveling over the stolen sensation of touch, even to an appendage he would not have remotely considered sensual before. This close, he was painfully aware of how the rain and the drenched grass had turned the modest lines of her gown wet and clinging to the curves of her body, and he tried to keep his gaze to her ankle and her ankle only as she leaned forward to see what he saw. He was helped, in part, by her discomfort at his probe; for her skin was red and warm to the touch, and though she hissed in a breath when he found a particularly tender spot, he did not yet feel anything truly severe to worry over.  
  
Pleased that his touch did not shake, and to further distract himself from the softness of her skin, he said as the thought came to him, “I have been remiss in asking for your name, I fear. Normally, I would first ask before . . .” but he bit off his words, not wanting to imply that he was this _familiar_ with other women, even for innocent intentions. On cue, he felt his face flame, and the tips of his ears burned.  
  
“The gossips gave you my father's name, but not _my_ name? How sadly typical.” This she smiled to say, gracefully letting his moment of inelegance go without comment, though the glittering of her eyes said that she'd heard it clearly. “I am Elenwë Mistenis, daughter to Hellendur Manwedil and Sanwë Wilindis, apparently erstwhile hiker, newly inducted acolyte to Manwë, and unfortunately terrible harpist, no matter my love for the instrument.”  
  
She took in a shaky breath, and he lessened the pressure of his touch in reply - though, when he looked up, she did not appear to be much pained.  
  
_Elenwë Mistenis_ , he found himself slowly savoring the sound of her name within his mind, fighting the urge he had to repeat it aloud. _Elenwë Mistenis_ , his spirit gave a lurch, coming to brush against the underside of his skin so much so that he was hard-pressed to hold back its light from rising from his pores.  
  
He flushed, and ducked his head so as to avoid meeting her eyes. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. I am Turukáno -”  
  
“ - Nurtafinwë,” she smiled to say. “I needed not seek far to learn more of you, you see, for my people love their tales as much as they love their bells.”  
  
“Such is not purely a Vanyarin trait,” he commented wryly. “My mother's Noldorin circle of ladies is a terrifying thing, and my Grandmother's are even more so.”  
  
“An army ever at the ready with sewing needles and words as sharp as swords; enough for even the dread Vala to shake in his place and wish for his return to Námo's keeping,” this Elenwë provided wryly, biting her lip to avoid a flinch as his fingertips moved.  
  
“Precisely,” Turukáno agreed, thinking only briefly that he was glad that Melkor's parole did not extend to the hospitality of Ingwë's halls. Every time he was in the presence of the disgraced Ainu he felt as if there was a weight upon his spirit, smothering him, and no matter Manwë's hopes and love for his brother, he did not care for the smile Melkor wore in his fair cage of flesh, ever failing as it did to reach his eyes.  
  
But he would not think of such things with _Elenwë_ sitting before him, and _Elenwë_ looking him boldly in the eye, even when he could not bring himself to wholly meet her gaze. There was a flush to her cheeks when he finally released her ankle, and for a moment he wondered if such was wholly from her discomfort, or did she too feel -  
  
\- sternly telling himself that his thoughts were unbecoming did not help the interested light of his spirit, however, which seemed to surge forth as a tide for hers at the thought, and through the greatest of efforts, he reined in the cast of his fëa, quite vexed with his lack of self-control - no matter how lovely the woman before him was.  
  
“There is nothing broken,” he was pleased to report, shaking his head in a further effort to clear his mind, “but you have managed to twist it rather badly. A cold compress and limited use should have it set to rights in a few days time. Which only leaves us with the conundrum of getting you back to the city.”  
  
“I can walk,” determination thickened the lilting cadence of her voice. Her bangs had fallen to hang in her eyes, and she stared through the golden haze of the rain as if the force of her will alone would be enough to carry her home.  
  
“I have no doubt of it,” Turukáno inclined his head, most certainly reminded of Irissë then. “And yet, perhaps the most sensible solution would be if -”  
  
Not wanting to give himself time to second-guess his decision, he held his arms open to display his intentions. For a moment her face twisted in surprise, and hesitation creased her features. But he would allow no other course, and she only uttered a halfhearted, “you shall ruin your robes,” in protest as he scooped her up, supporting her weight behind her shoulders and underneath her knees as her arms came to rest quite naturally around his neck.  
  
Distracted by the way her left hand threaded through his hair to better stabilize herself, he almost missed her saying, “it is a long walk back,” in a worried tone of voice. She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth before he sternly told himself to look away.  
  
“Not terribly so,” he countered. “And you are no burden to carry.” Such was true, he thought, for he hardly noticed her weight when he was instead focused on the warm sensation of her body pressed against his own. His spirit was then a pleased, eager shape as it pulsed against the constraint of his hröa, pushing him on and urging him to be of aid to her in any way he could. He narrowed his eyes against his more fey sensibilities, and told his baser self that his slipping while so distracted would benefit neither of them. And so . . .  
  
The rain was nothing more than a fine mist by the time he walked through the gates of Valmar with Elenwë still in his arms. As Ingwë's halls were the closest of his options, he took Elenwë in to the guest's suite his family was sharing, shooing away the attendants and guards who were eager to help him with his burden, before setting Elenwë down on one of the low couches in the sitting room. His arms felt empty as soon as he let her go, and he inordinately missed her warmth, only then noticing the chill he bore from the rain and the uncomfortable way his wet robes stuck to his body as they dried.  
  
But he was grateful that Irissë had sensed his approach, and had rushed back early from the Changing in order to have one of her dry gowns ready in hand. By her side, Findekáno too was waiting with bandages and a cold compress, his eyes wide as he took in his appearance – from the ruined plaits of his braids to the liberal streaks of green marring the usually impeccable white of his dress. He narrowed his eyes at Findekáno's look, daring his elder brother to say a word.  
  
“Normally, it is _my_ job to bring home strays, not Turvo's,” this Irissë could not help but say, biting back her need to hear _everything_ as she instead stepped forward to warmly welcome the other woman. “I bid you welcome, Elenwë, to the House of Nolofinwë – temporary though it may be.”  
  
Though Elenwë's face was pinched and white, she smiled for meeting his sister, and Turukáno felt something warm inside of him build at the sight – so much so that he did not notice Irissë staring at him pointedly, her eyes blade-sharp as she took the medical supplies from Findekáno's hands.  
  
“I am sure that your guest would like to change into something dry,” she finally cleared her throat pointedly to say. “And you too are doing nothing more than dripping onto the tile as you ogle. Go and change, and she will be as right as rain by the time you return, Turvo.”  
  
On cue, he felt his cheeks flame red – for which Irissë's smile was only just too triumphant to be called innocent. Findekáno too looked as if he was trying not to grin too widely, and though Elenwë's face did flush to match his own, there was a twinkling in her eyes that put him at ease for his siblings' humor.  
  
“I leave you in the best of hands, then, my lady,” at last, he recovered himself enough to say. However, he did not deny himself the pleasure of leaning down to kiss the back of her hand in farewell. Elenwë's eyes were very, very green as she stared at him, and he once again felt his spirit brush the underside of his skin as a near tangible wave of light.  
  
“Nearly,” Elenwë did not quite agree. “And yet . . .” With a boldness he could not yet claim for himself, she tugged on the front of his tunic to pull him down to her, and she brushed a kiss across his cheek. After a moment's hesitation he felt her smile, and her lips just barely caught the corner of his mouth as she released him. It could not properly be called a kiss, but he felt the intention of it, even so, and when he gaped down at her, her eyes were glittering.  
  
“If the Valar sought to chastise me for my lackluster worship this morning, theirs is a peculiar form of punishment,” she said softly, so softly that he did not think that she first intended to speak her words aloud. He squeezed her hand once in reply before letting her go, ready to leave her to Irissë's care.  
  
But a heartbeat passed, and her voice once again summoned him before he could wholly leave her behind. “Next time, my lord, do not wait for such circumstances to speak to me,” she let out boldly. “Ask me to dance,” he swore that he could feel her spirit smile to say, “I would not have - I _will not_ \- say no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Maitimo** : Maedhros  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Findaráto** : Finrod  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Curufinwë** : Curufin  
>  **Makalaurë** : Maglor


	82. "who refused to breathe in water"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril/Tuor & Ensemble Gondolindrim || Prompt: _Memories_

**Memories**  
  
The summer day was a warm, hot thing against their skin, even as high in the mountains as they were.  
  
Dominating the skyline, the white peaks of the Echoriath were blinding underneath the sunlight, and the blue mountain lake filling the dip in the terrain, just south of the Cristhorn, was as a mirror as it returned the high light of noontide blow for blow. There was a laughing waterfall feeding the lake, pouring out from a hidden river within the rock, and the merry cadence was an inviting sound - so much so that it was not long until her companions proposed a swim – or, more accurately, Glorfindel mentioned his _intention_ to swim before turning and nonchalantly pushing Ecthelion from the rocky overlook into the awaiting water below. The dark haired elf spat and sputtered in protest as he surfaced again, little amused by Glorfindel's saying that, as Lord of the Fountains – and his being half-Telerin, at that - he should have appreciated his return to the water. Wise as to what would next transpire, Idril deftly stepped out of the way before Ecthelion decided to live up to his name and gravely set himself to the most serious task of seeing his friend as drenched as he was.  
  
Content to watch at a distance, she could not help but laugh when the two elves turned from each other in favor of dragging Maeglin to the water. Such was good for her cousin, she could not help but think – and one of the reasons that her father had insisted they bring him along in the first place. All too often were his days spent in the dark of the forges and the shadows of the mines, and his brooding silences and grave fits of temper were little helped so far from the sunlight and the warmth of the natural day. To see joy returned to his sister-son's countenance, Turgon was determined to do nearly anything in honor of Aredhel's memory, and Idril would help her father in that regard, even ignoring her own sense of foreboding to do so, little caring for the way Maeglin . . .  
  
Yet, she refused to think on such things with such a beautiful day around them - not even when a drenched Maeglin finally escaped from the water like an angry and hissing tomcat, his ire snapping from his fëa like a lash at those around him. His too-fair skin had already turned pink and blistering during their short journey from the Seventh Gate, and his wildly long black hair now clung to his face and the absurd black robes he had insisted on wearing in spite of the summer heat. With more overbearing pomp than she had ever seen her father don with his most difficult courtiers, Maeglin had spluttered about the insult done to his royal person, demanding the respect and the gravitas due to one of his blood and lineage. Yet, when Glorfindel finally _did_ bow his head and apologize for his lapse in protocol to preserve peace amongst their party, Idril had seen the way his words were only that – words. As a cousin to her mother, Glorfindel was tied to her House through Elenwë's marriage, and his centuries of following her father in friendship, as well as fealty, had him little impressed by Maeglin's airs - and even less inclined to view a line between himself and the family he loved so dearly. Idril would not have it any differently, at that, and knew that her father felt the same as she.  
  
Maeglin now walked the further side of the lake, sulking, and Glorfindel ignored him in favor of dozing on the sun-soaked rocks like a large and lazy lion, drying in the heat. Now that he did not have to worry for Glorfindel's exuberant love for water-sports, Ecthelion was making use of the deeper end of the lake by the waterfall to swim laps in peace – this being a favourite spot of his due to his Telerin blood, much as Glorfindel had first teased, while Tuor . . .  
  
Though she would deny it to any who asked, her eyes found the mortal man more often than not. Though only months had passed since Tuor Ulmo's Voice came to Gondolin, he had recovered from his long journey - first escaping Lorgan, only to live as an outlaw until Ulmo's favor found him, thus forcing him to survive the violence of the Fell Winter in his quest to find the Hidden Way to Gondolin and her father's listening ear within. Now, a constant seat at Turgon's table and regular exercise through his sparring with the Guard had him filling out his large and tall frame admirably well, with healthy colour returning to his skin and luster to his strangely yellow hair. Though she told herself that she would not stare – for a shirtless man was certainly nothing new to her eyes after so many centuries – she nonetheless found herself turning to where Tuor swam by himself during the playful exchange between their companions. In the beginning of any such outing by the water, Tuor was always solemn, and the deep respect and friendship he bore for the Vala of the Seas never failed to move her. She watched him now, unable to look away, no matter what was going on around her.  
  
Then, there was the simple novelty that was a _Man_ to her eyes. Unlike the tall and lithe men she knew of her own folk, Tuor had a strange breadth of form to match his great height, and the extra bulk, rather than making him awkward and ungainly to her eyes, was strangely pleasing to look upon. His physique was toned and rippling with strength, and she did not know if it was that which caught her eye, or the strange way his body was covered with a fine fuzz of hair. Fascinatingly, it grew from his face in a beard that he shaved less and less often as of late, and it noticeably dusted his chest to darken in a thin line down the center of his torso – which she most certainly _did not_ stare at more than she should have. Even the scars he bore in healed white lines from Lorgan's cruelty were an enticement, rather than a brand of ugliness to her eyes. Even now she followed one particularly pronounced welt with her gaze, trailing across his abdominal muscles before curving around his side and turning down his back to disappear beneath the waistline of -  
  
\- of course, his eyes would turn to her find her then, _just then_ , and no matter how quickly she looked away, the fact remained that she had been caught looking, and he _knew_. She felt her cheeks flush, wondering where her countless years – her normally effortless serenity – fled off to whenever he was near. Far from being as a child to her years, there were often times when _she_ felt the youth around _him_ , and while Tuor had never taken to teasing her outright, there was a strange sort of light in his eyes whenever she was near, so much so that she . . .  
  
Idril merely swallowed, and told herself that such thoughts were foolishness, destined only for heartbreak, and resolved to think on them no more.  
  
. . . which was why she most certainly did not hold her breath when Tuor came to sit on the sun warmed stones next to her. He always did sit very close to her, she thought, with only a hand's breath between their bodies to be found. She held herself the slightest bit straighter in reply, a strange sort of awareness tingling through her limbs at the knowledge.  
  
“I do believe that this lake is my favourite part of Gondolin yet,” Tuor was the first to speak, his eyes glancing from her to look out over the bright blue water again. The sharp glow of the sun against the lake settled atop the highlights the summer bleached in his hair, turning it alight with color to match. She stared for a moment, watching the way the wet strands against his neck curled as they dried, before determinedly looking away.  
  
“It is this that entrances you so? Not the famous white spires or the laughing fountains?” she found her voice to ask, raising a dark blonde brow in exaggerated surprise. “It is for they the poets wet their pens, and the minstrels string their harps, I have come to find.”  
  
“The white spires and laughing fountains are fair enough, I grant you,” Tuor returned. “I do not think one could ever call Gondolin displeasing to the eye, but this . . . there is something natural about this place. Something contented and _right_ in its belonging. Yes, I do feel a kinship with it, I confess.”  
  
“Huor too loved this spot,” she said, ever glad as she was to mention their previous mortal guest to him. As always, Tuor turned quiet at the mention of the father he had never known, as if by concentrating all the more so he could inscribe each word she said to his memory, and never let them go. “He could swim for hours on end, and never tire of the water. Often we would come with him, Glorfindel and Húrin and I watching while Ecthelion raced Huor back and forth until they were both wrinkled and pruned from tarrying too long in the water. Those were fine days to my mind, and much beloved amongst my memories.”  
  
“My father taught me to swim in the pools of Androth,” Tuor was happy to return her shared memory with one of his own, differentiating not between Annael and Huor in his heart, and thus, seeing no need to do so when speaking aloud. “He was of like kin with the Falathrim, you see, and reverent for the life that could be felt in the water. He taught me that the same water that touches us also touches the Western shores, thus allowing us to feel an echo of the Song that birthed all in the cadence of the waves and the pull of the tides. Perhaps such is merely the Elven way, but there are times when I too like to imagine . . .”  
  
He faltered from saying anything more, unsure how to phrase that which was without words. Yet, in the blue of his eyes she did not see a reflection of Hador and Haleth's might, as so many professed, but, rather, of the ocean itself. Just barely, she thought that she could understand that of which he spoke.  
  
“Do you swim?” Tuor finally returned his gaze to her. His eyes were very bright, reflecting the water and the sunlight both. “It has just struck me that I have never once seen you take to the water, not even to run a hand through one of the fountains your minstrels love so much.”  
  
“ . . . no,” she had to force the one syllable to take shape, and her voice came out as a stiff, ungainly sound. She fought to keep herself from frowning, ill at ease as she was with even the thought . . . “I have not swam since . . .” she faltered, refusing to count _that_ time, no matter that she could still remember the icy shock of the water that was nearly her tomb. Even now she could remember the way the frozen sea had pummeled her from all sides, filling her lungs and choking her breath until strong hands pushed and pulled, at last freeing her from the water's stubborn embrace at the cost of . . . “I've not swam since Aman,” Idril finally forced herself to finish, “as a girl.”  
  
Tuor blinked, his eyes widening as if he could not fathom so long a time spent away from the water he so adored. “Yet, that has been . . .” he faltered, his mortal mind tripping over the knowledge of her centuries, no matter that he had so long been raised amongst, and found a belonging, with Elven-kind as the kindred of his heart.  
  
“Many, many years, I grant you,” her mouth was a thin line to say so. Though she tried for wry humor, she could feel where her face was slow to leave its grim countenance behind.  
  
“Many such,” Tuor frowned to agree, and she felt something dangerous seize in her chest when she realized that his gaze was considering, puzzling over the why of her not doing so, and, concerned, looked to find . . .  
  
She saw where his face softened, and though he did not speak aloud, she knew that someone had told him the story of her family's tragedy. Glorfindel, more than like, she guessed, who would wish to let Tuor know before he asked questions in innocence that would have been painful for the answering.  
  
“I am sorry,” Tuor inclined his head to say. “I did not consider my question before asking, and for that I know regret.”  
  
“Please, do not cause yourself such worry,” she did not want him to know grief on her behalf for a wound that was so very old to her spirit - not on what had first been such a pleasing day for them all. “Such a wound is a very old grief for me, and I do not wish for it to mar this day,” she shared her thoughts aloud.  
  
“No matter its age, the grief is still fresh if it keeps you from something that it so sacred to your people,” this Tuor was resolute to say. There was a strange sort of determination to his voice, and she did not know what to make of it at the first.  
  
“The memory still causes pain,” she swallowed thickly to say, wishing to speak of something else then – anything else. “Which is why I do all I can to avoid its reminder.”  
  
She looked at the water then, unable to hold Tuor's eyes. For a moment, she hated the way the lake seemed to ripple in innocent serenity. First Alqualondë with its white sands and pearlescent surf stained so very _red_ by those she had known as her kinsman, unable as her child's mind was to wholly understand the great wrong done that day . . . and then the water claiming and _tearing_ her mother away, no matter how she reached . . . no, she did not care for the water at all.  
  
Idril inhaled, even now able to remember the raw sensation that had been her mother fading from her fëa . . . followed by her father's grief and disbelief burning through her spirit as _such a pain_ before Galadriel's presence of mind had shielded her from the psychic outpouring. Even now she could remember how Fingon and Finrod had to fight to physically restrain her father in order to keep Turgon from drowning himself in trying to reclaim Elenwë . . . She had seen, and she had _known,_ no matter how Glorfindel had turned her face into his chest so as to keep her from seeing her father in such a state . . . and it had all been _her fault_. If she had chosen any other step . . . if she had foreseen the shatter-point in the Ice, just as she Saw so many other things . . . if she had been that much stronger, that much faster, that much _wiser,_ as she was so-called now . . . then her mother need not have fallen to the Helcaraxë's merciless claws, and her father may still, even now, have his wife . . . and she her mother.  
  
But she sucked in a breath, her logical mind knowing that it was only the remnants of her child-self's grief that felt as such. Even so, it was a fearful knowing, a terrible _guilt_ , that lingered with her throughout her adult years, and she could never seem to shake it wholly away.  
  
She frowned, and bit her lip, glancing over only when Tuor sucked in a shaky breath. His bright eyes had taken on a shadow, and his strong hands made fists where they rested in his lap. She then felt his hurt, and it took her a moment to understand that he felt as such for _her_ hurt. Hurriedly, she shielded her mind, unaware that she had been projecting in such a way - for she had ever been able to influence the minds of others much too easily, and Tuor was strangely in tune to her thoughts, even more so than her closest friends amongst the Eldar.  
  
Idril faltered, unsure how to apologize for something she did not even know how to explain with words spoken aloud. But to her surprise, Tuor only reached over and took one of her hands in his own. There was strength in his touch, she thought - sympathy too. Yet, it was not a sympathy she drowned in, as she often felt when she was offered pity and condolences for her mother, but rather, something that buoyed her . . . something that held her afloat on the sea of her own grief and memories.  
  
“Then,” Tuor said slowly - carefully even, “if you are amiable, my lady, I would wish to help you form a new memory to replace the ones which pain you.”  
  
He was not the first one to ask such of her, she thought. Aredhel had tried many times before she was . . . before her death, and Glorfindel too had tried once in his kindness, though not again. But she had never been able to return to the water. As far as she knew, her father had not, either.  
  
But now . . .  
  
There was a strange sort of tugging she felt, deep within her spirit; the same as the tides responding to the draw of the moon, she imagined. Tuor then stood, and she immediately missed the loss of his hand about her own - that was, until he leaned down to offer her his hand again.  
  
“If you would trust me . . .” he beckoned her, and the cord she felt, seemingly connecting her spirit to his, drew her to move before she even made the conscious decision to do so. She bit her lip, and something inside of her felt small and desperate – filled with a child's remembered fear – but she swallowed that feeling away to place her hand in his, and let him help her to her feet.  
  
She was wearing a long, sleeveless blue tunic that went nearly to her knees in the front, and all the way down to her calves in the back, with slashes in the sides for easier movement, over pale grey leggings and thin summer boots – a style her aunt Aredhel had favored, and one she had adopted in turn whenever she left the city walls behind for the mountains, where the court's finery would not do at all. Eying the water pensively all the while, her hands trembled as she undid the laces to her boots, before next loosening her belt so that she could slip off her long tunic in favor of the thin linen shirt she wore beneath. She took more time than was necessary in rolling up her leggings, only glancing over when she felt Tuor's eyes upon her – or, more accurately, the pale skin from her knees down she had revealed – before he turned away, the tips of his strangely curved ears turning pink. In any other circumstances, such would have caused a matching blush on her face - had her mind not already been so otherwise occupied to be pleased by his regard.  
  
From further down the shoreline, she saw where Maeglin had turned to watch them, and his was a gaze she felt as a weight as it lingered. Ignoring her cousin, she allowed Tuor to take her hand once more, then eager for the shielding embrace of the water for more reasons than one.  
  
They came to where the surf kissed the pebbled shore, and Idril looked down at the calmly lapping water as if it flowed from Morgoth himself. Her logical mind knew, and understood, the absurdity of her trepidation, but no such understanding from her higher reasoning was enough to hide the way her body suddenly took on a stiff cast - as if her limbs had filled with molten iron and then rapidly cooled, preventing her from moving forward.  
  
Tuor stepped into the water first, and he said nothing to coax her further. Instead, he merely waited, and with the look from his eyes . . .  
  
. . . finally, she took that first step . . .  
  
. . . and then another as she left the comfort of the shore behind.  
  
The water was cold – not too cold, she had to firmly tell herself, not _icy_ – but instead soothing as it combated the heat of the day. Her feet sunk into the lake-bed, and the gentle current tugged against her ankles as she stood still, acclimating to the feel of the water once more.  
  
Next to her, there was a serene expression on Tuor's face, and she could _feel_ the way that the embrace of the water was a home superior to him than any other he had ever known. The water seemed to mutter around him, to _hum_ in welcome, he truly being Ulmo's favored one in every way.  
  
So, she squared her jaw, and went in deeper.  
  
By the time the water came up to her waist, she was repeating to herself over and over again that she was _safe_ , that this was still _Gondolin_ , secure and guarded and far, far away from the icy tundra that had taken so much from so many. She was safe, she was _well_ , and if she would only allow herself, she could even enjoy herself, as well.  
  
Her mother would not want her to live in fear for the rest of her life, the thought struck her, quite unsummoned, and rather than the thought being a relief, she strangely felt tears touch her eyes, even though the loss of Elenwë was one centuries old to her heart.  
  
All the while, Tuor's hand was firmly wrapped about her own, standing as a steady weight, a comforting presence. She squeezed his fingers tighter and tighter the deeper they went, holding onto him as if he were the anchor keeping her from drifting. He would not let her come to any harm, that knowledge - that _truth_ \- was then a comfort of its own. With such in mind, she then let herself exist separately from her memories, instead enjoying the coolness of the current and the murmur of the rippling waves. There truly was _life_ in the water, Tuor was wise in saying, and she listened, certain that she could then hear . . .  
  
Seized by a moment of boldness, she let go, and dove forward to submerge herself completely beneath the water. For a moment, the water was cold - _too_ cold – and she felt panic rise up in her as she remembered the Ice swallowing her, with Elenwë pushing her up while hands searched for her from above, pulling her to safety, even when – but no, _no_. She held onto Tuor's hand, and pushed the memories away. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the buoyant feeling of floating, of the peaceful undulation of the water as the sunlight danced on the surface above her head. She held on for a moment and then a moment more, forcing herself to stay under until her lungs burned and air became a necessity she could not ignore.  
  
When she swam up to break the surface again, Tuor was still right there by her side, smiling widely at her for her moment of fearlessness. She too was smiling then, even though tears flowed from her eyes - tears, not from fear and grief, so much as from missing and mourning. They were indecipherable from the water still dripping down into her eyes, however, and to anyone else she would simply appear as a woman enjoying the water – something simple and natural, and so, _so_ . . . her thoughts faltered, and she glanced to the shore again. Ignoring the too close way Maeglin was watching her, she instead saw where Glorfindel had awakened from his doze to watch her, he well knowing what a leap such a venture had been for her - and he looked away only when he was certain that there was joy in her gaze, rather than fear. Further in the lake, Ecthelion too had paused from his swim to tread water and watch her, and she inclined her head to them each before turning back to Tuor – _Tuor_ , who was looking at her as if she were the sunlight on the water to his eyes. She then felt joy enough to splash him, and that joy turned tenfold when he pushed her down and none of the all-encompassing panic she would normally feel rose up to consume her when the lake swallowed her again.  
  
Idril was shivering and her fingertips were wrinkled by the time they returned to the rocky shore, but the hot sun above was already making quick work of her chills as they both settled down to dry before continuing on. She was still unable to keep from smiling, and her happy contentment was shared by Tuor as he tilted his head, making no effort to hide the way he stared.  
  
“I had forgotten,” she said, unable to wholly put into words the way she felt, “just how pleasing the water could be. I thank you for returning that joy to me, Tuor, son of Huor.”  
  
His look softened as she spoke, and though it took him a moment to reply, at last he said, “Such was a joy I could not go on without ensuring you knew as well. Perhaps it is merely a sign of Ulmo's favor, but the water has always blessed me . . . it has led me to everything I hold dear in this life.” For this, he met her eyes, and she was aware of a strange heat in his gaze, a strange warmth, and though he hesitated, he at last summoned his courage and finished by saying, “For it has led me to you, after all, has it not?”  
  
She did not have the words to answer him, but he did not seem to expect a reply. Instead, he laid down on his back, already closing his eyes and content to laze in the sun until they were ready to carry on again. For a long moment, Idril stared down at him, wanting so very dearly to say . . .  
  
But such words were so much more than taking a plunge into cold water. There was still courage for her to gather, and until she could find a way to speak then . . .  
  
She simply laid down on the stone next to him, and closed her eyes to the warmth of the sun and the murmur of the water just beyond them. Contentment then seemed to fill her heart, and it was that and only that she let herself dwell on as the sunlight continued to dance on the lake beyond them.


	83. "I have no weapons of ocean or wood"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rían & Emeldir, Finduilas/Túrin, Tar-Míriel/Amandil, Fíriel/Arvedui, Dís & Thorin || Prompts: _Life, Twine, Pour, Counsel, Console_
> 
> Since all of my upcoming chapters are looking to be a bit lengthy, I decided to refresh my muse with a few short stories. (These were supposed to be hundred word drabbles, but I have issues with constrained word counts, apparently. ;)) As these are so short, I didn't want to post them separately, and as they all feature a rather strong lady, I decided that was enough of a theme to tie them together. So, enjoy these awesome ladies, dear readers - this fandom is full of them, no matter how many pretty boys Tolkien has running around. ;)

**Life**  
  
There was no doubt in Emeldir's mind what plagued her niece; for Rían sat before her, curious and bewildered as she explained her symptoms, only to stammer in disbelief when Emeldir voiced her suspicions – understanding then dawning in her eyes as she reflected, and through that reflection _knew_ . . .  
  
“Yet, we spent barely two months together as man and wife. Now . . . a _child_ . . .” this Rían stammered to say, her disbelief yet greater than her joy.  
  
“These things only takes once,” Emeldir remarked wryly. “For this blessing you will now have a child to gift to your husband when he returns home from the battlefield.”  
  
“Yes . . . when Huor returns to me . . .” Rían echoed, her large brown eyes then terribly soft and sad. She moved a hesitant hand to touch her still flat stomach, her fingertips barely grazing the fabric of her dress as her eyes turned listlessly to the north. Still staring far away, she whispered, “yet there are days I fear . . . I feel certain that never again shall we . . .” she faltered, and Emeldir watched as her hand fell away from her womb, her half-hearted caress ending before it truly begun.  
  
A nameless fear then rose within Emeldir, whispering and noxious, and she leaned forward to firmly place the girl's hands over her stomach, covering them with her own aged and strong hands to ensure that she did not let go.  
  
“This is _life_ you carry within you, Rían Belegund's daughter, and with that gift comes the most sacred of obligations,” Emeldir stated fiercely. “It matters not whether your husband falls in battle or lives on to return to you; for you now hold this part of him, and it is to _you_ to live and love for your child, no matter the fate of its father. Your child will be your light in any dark days to come, but only if you open your eyes to see it.”  
  
“Yet . . .” Rían whispered softly, so softly that Emeldir had to strain to here. “Huor . . .”  
  
“Would want you to dry your tears,” Emeldir whispered, her voice gentling, “and love this child enough for the both of you. For, overjoyed with this blessing your husband most certainty would be, would he not?”  
  
Still she frowned, but when Emeldir let her hands fall away, Rían's own hands remained protectively clasped over her womb, a slow determination dawning in her eyes - one that Emeldir hoped, and prayed, was enough to carry both mother and child through any dark days to come.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Twine**  
  
For all that Adanedhel did not first seem like other men to her – even other _elven-men -_ the fact still remained that he could bleed, and bleed true when struck.  
  
The cut to his arm was not terribly severe, however, and though it would need stitches, it would not pain him overly much as it healed. Though they were sparring with blunted steel, he had taken the wound in order to get closer to his opponent and land his 'killing blow' - caring not that the dull blade would have taken his sword-arm in true combat if it meant slaying his foe. This Finduilas had seen while watching with a close eye – for, though she would deny it to any who asked, she watched the mortal man more than was perhaps appropriate, looking when none could see her eyes wander, and there letting her gaze linger . . .  
  
Yet, she surprised herself with a bravery she would not first have claimed when she offered to tend the wound for him.  
  
“You do not turn faint at the sight of blood?” She had come to recognize the dry sort of humor that cut through Adanedhel's somber demeanor in but flashes. His mouth did not smile, but there was the slightest softening of his features – which were always hard and severe, but nearly elven-fair, no matter their seemingly being cut from stone.  
  
“I am useful for more than weaving tapestries and planning suppers in the Great Hall, my lord,” Finduilas summoned her strength to retort, even though her voice remained soft. “What's more so, I am not unfamiliar with the healer's songs, nor with the way a needle may mend flesh as surely as it does cloth.”  
  
Her lessons with their few true-healers had been few, she did not add, and though she had been told that she had potential, it was a talent she had not properly encouraged to grow – though she had returned to their arts all the more so after Gwindor's return, wishing as she did to help him with his wounds both seen and unseen, in any way she could.  
  
“I'd never have weighed your worth by the mere mending of tapestries before,” Adanedhel returned wryly. “It is a fool who solely would.”  
  
She felt a queer sort of fluttering in her chest for his words, and found that she could say no more as she set about first cleaning his arm for the needle. She hummed underneath her breath as she worked, the soft notes encouraging his skin to weave together and the pain to sooth for what was to come.  
  
When she reached for the poultice to numb his skin, she was surprised when Adanedhel waved her on. She raised a brow, but did not protest his wishes.  
  
Finduilas glanced, but he did not flinch when the needle made its first pass. She fought the urge she had to hesitate, before carrying on, not wanting to prolong the process due to her own uncertainty and unease.  
  
“Gwindor said before that you fight like a bear; a crazed one, at that,” she commented, wishing to distract him from the movements of the needle. “I did not quite realize how true his words were until today.” For just the accidental draw of his blood, he had turned on his sparring partner tenfold, and before the Elf realized that the Man was about to cause him a serious harm and fought back in turn, Adanedhel had nearly ended the bout with more than a few inconsequential stitches being needed.  
  
“I have had many such reasons to fight so,” Adanedhel rumbled, more to himself than to her. “War is not a jest, not even in the mock matches your kin make sport of here.”  
  
He then fell silent, lost to his own thoughts, but she nonetheless felt compelled to continue as her stitches wandered down his arm. “I have never felt the call to arms myself, especially after mending the hurts steel has caused. But the idea of someday, perhaps, leading those fighting men . . . there are times when it intimidates me, and I do not yet feel equal to the task.” Following her confession, she felt her pale skin flush, wishing that she had not given away such a personal piece of information to a man she hardly knew.  
  
But he then fixed those strangely intense grey eyes on her, and there was a heat there to rival the star-gazes of her own people when he said, “You carry more bravery than you think, princess. Perhaps you only need the opportunity to show it.”  
  
She looked down, then unable to hold his eyes as she processed his words. He was the first man who had spoken thus to her, she reflected . . . for Gwindor would simply pat her hand and say that he would protect her through all things, and her father would insist that she was safe and secure behind Nargothrond's walls . . . Never would she need such courage, with others ready to see to her well-being.  
  
Yet . . .  
  
She finished the last stitch, and forced herself to meet his eyes again. “There, it shall be as as if the wound never happened in a sennight's time.”  
  
“With not even a scar to show,” Adanedhel inclined his head to her, absently running the fingers of his opposite hand over the upraised row of twine. “I thank you, Finarfiniel, and bid that you remember this: many are the men who can lead in war, but few are those who can heal the hurts caused by its scourge. Yours is a gift, and men will follow you for it – for more reasons than one.”  
  
Finduilas could not quite seem to meet his as he spoke, her cheeks flushing as she instead stared at the neat row of stitches, considering his words until he rolled his sleeve down, and she could see them no more.  
  
  
  
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**Pour**  
  
It was raining the night Amandil set sail for Valinor.  
  
Though the risk to herself was great, Zimraphel cloaked herself in darkness, and set off to see him away from Rómenna. The lies and intrigue came easily to her – too easily, she yet mourned - to deceive her husband as to her true intentions. But, in the end, she need not have worried - for Pharazôn's mind was much too consumed with his golden Maia and his impending assault on Valinor, so much so that he spared not a second thought for her 'pilgrimage', or where she may have truly been going instead.  
  
His disinterest suited her well enough, however. The rain suited her even better, as it meant that the docks were empty as night fell and Amandil checked to make sure that everything was ready to sail, one last time.  
  
A part of her heart was heavy as she watched him prepare to leave, for Amandil had been a constant in her life since her earliest days. She remembered playing with him and Calion – _Pharazôn_ , she lamented bitterly – as children in the surf, their futures then being so very far away while their days were nothing more than the sand and the waves and the seashells that both of her friends brought to earn her favor. Even as she grew into a woman, and their respective marriages and her husband's maddening obsession with immortality and that _creature_ turned away everything good and fair that Númenor once held, Amandil continued to hold a special place in her heart. She could never quite let him go.  
  
For so long she had quietly fought and rebelled against the Zigûr and his influence, much as Amandil had fought, and now . . . his journey was their one last desperate hope that somewhere, somehow, the Valar and the One himself were listening to those who still loved and worshiped them, and would protect them in return. And yet, when he was gone she would be alone, _truly_ alone . . . and her weariness for the years standing upright underneath the Shadow then weighed upon her as an anchor, holding her down in the deep.  
  
“We are ready to leave, Your Grace,” Amandil's warm voice spoke from behind her, and Zimraphel turned at his words.  
  
“You have known me since my girlhood, and never once have titles stood between us, my friend,” this she smiled wanly to say. And it was true; though Amandil's hair was greying and heavy lines creased about his eyes, he was still _Amandil_ , and never had she thought of him as lesser for the order of blood between them. In some ways, she reflected wryly, he could claim a closer tie to Elros than even she, if worth had been seen in the female line in those earlier days . . .  
  
“Yet . . . I cannot use the name he gave to you . . . you know that,” Amandil said softly, a long moment first passing, heavy in its pause. The rain continued to fall between them, but she paid it no heed, feeling as if the pouring heavens instead hid them, shielding them from the world as the water returned to the sea . . . ever to the sea.  
  
“Then do not use _that_ name . . . not now,” her voice was strangely thick as she spoke, “not when . . .”  
  
“You have never been Zimraphel to me. Rather . . . _Míriel_ ,” Amandil did not have to be prompted twice to say her name, her _true_ name. His voice was low and reverent over the syllables; little more than a whisper. “Míriel . . . you must know that I have long . . .”  
  
But she ceased his words, placing a hand before his mouth to keep them from falling onto the air between them. Whatever more he would say, she did not think that she had the strength to hear. She had given up on the idea of _him_ a long time ago, and he now had a son and grandsons to his name while she remained barren by choice and chained to the likes of _him . . ._ No, she could not . . . not if she wanted to continue to pretend at any sort of strength when he was gone.  
  
“May the wind be ever strong at your back, and the waves calm at your bow,” she had to swallow in order to say. Her words were half given to the rain. “I pray that Ulmo guides your way, and that you find . . . that you find a way to deliver we who remain behind.”  
  
Amandil looked down at her, and she held her head up high and let him look, no longer afraid of what he would see. In return, she let her eyes drink in their fill until he turned, and for the last time she watched him leave, the rain taking her sight of him long before the horizon swallowed him away.  
  
Zimraphel then turned, and resigned them both to the whims of the sea. She did not look back again.  
  
  
  
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**Counsel**  
  
Her lord husband was pouring over maps and letters from the front-lines when she came to him. For a moment, Fíriel stared the line of his back, biting her lip and yet uncertain of her place, no matter that nearly three months had passed since they spoke their vows.  
  
_Were you a son, you would have been the greatest king Gondor has yet to know, and hard pressed would your sons be to follow in your footsteps_ , her father's voice rang through her mind, and Fíriel clenched her jaw, telling herself that her father – that dear, most beloved _Gondor_ – was now far behind her. The cold and wild north was now her home – her _duty –_ with her worth being weighed only by the blood of Elros in her veins and her ability to bear sons who would share that blood. And now, to that duty . . .  
  
Ignoring the missives piled high on the desk, and telling her suddenly itching fingers to remain still, she instead announced her presence by saying, “My lord, Gunthor informed me that you were in council with Malbeth and your father the King the whole night through, and as I was certain that you had not taken the time to break your fast . . .”  
  
Arvedui turned at the sound of her voice, and his clear grey eyes were most certainly clouded by a long night spent pondering and debating the welfare of their kingdom. Yet, there was also surprise in his gaze when he looked at her offered platter of tea and black bread and summer fruit, and the shape of that surprise was as a sudden sort of wound to her. For a moment she wondered why it pained her so.  
  
“I thank-you,” Arvedui managed to say, and she'd now known him long enough to recognize the slow sort of curiosity in his eyes, along with . . . “Angmar grows more and more bold with every season,” he explained the papers spread out before him. “As such, I find myself to be . . .”  
  
But he did not finish his words. Frustrated, he instead ran a hand through his inky hair – longer than it had been when they wed, and now in need of a trim, she noticed – and sighed.  
  
“Then I will leave you to the affairs of the realm,” Fíriel bowed – dutiful and poised – and turned to leave her husband be. She made it one, then two steps to the door, before Arvedui's voice stopped her.  
  
“ - wait, my lady,” he faltered awkwardly to say. “I must confess that my eyes are in sore need of a fresh gaze, and I have heard tales of your prowess in such matters as these. I would see so for myself, if your morning is not otherwise engaged.”  
  
At first, Fíriel could not quite believe what she was hearing. She turned, and hesitantly eyed the maps and letters, wishing . . .  
  
“You are certain . . .” she could not quite phrase her words, wanting, but unsure if her wanting was allowed – or appreciated - recalling then how often her father had sighed, and her brothers had turned her away with laughter and jests touched with scorn. The idea of such a response from her husband was one that she was strangely reluctant to bear.  
  
But Arvedui's eyes were soft with something she could not quite name, and when he opened a hand to encompass his work, she wanted so very dearly to trust the welcome in his voice. “These lands are now your lands, and I would hear your voice in this . . . as I would in all things.” Though his words began hesitantly, they were strong by the last syllable, and she _wished_ . . .  
  
And so, Fíriel walked forward with the grace of the queen she could have been, and sat down with her husband to add her voice to his.  
  
  
  
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**Console**  
  
Such was the work in settling Ered Luin anew that even those born of their ancient Kings got down on their hands and knees to complete the most remedial of tasks.  
  
Sometimes, Dís thought that her brother did so on purpose. No task was too big or small for Thorin - from carrying stone as a laborer, to scrubbing in the forges on his hands and knees as he was now. Sometimes, she thought that he had to keep himself moving, else-wise the memories would rise up and overtake him, and then, looking around him, he would only see . . .  
  
. . . what was missing, she forced the thought to completion within her own mind. More than the iron they now mined and the iron they now forged, more than the stolen gold and green marble glory of Erebor, were those who no longer walked these halls – or any hall, for that matter. From their grandfather . . . to their father . . . to . . .  
  
. . . _so many_ , she simply amended, the loss of Frerin still as a bruise she felt more acutely than any other wound. For such she felt as if she – as if they _all_ \- needed to embrace the home and second chance she truly felt the Blue Mountains to be. These mountains had been an ancient and most hallowed seat to both Nogrod and Belegost in the Elder Days, and now, if any of the Maker's blessing was left in these stones, she was determined to find it and hold it close where she could.  
  
Still thinking as such, she carefully peaked over, trying to gauge her brother's mood as Thorin scoured a place on the floor that she was certain was clean by now. Even in something as remedial as scrubbing the floors he still managed to hold a dignity and regal bearing that she sometimes envied. No one would doubt that he was Durin's heir, even with his hair tied back in a graceless mass and wearing rough-spun clothes so as to not sully the few pieces of royal weave they had left to them. He wore no riches from the earth's belly, nothing but for the two iron studs in his ears – the first crafted in Ered Luin, standing as a reminder, as a _penance,_ she could not help but think, and, as such, they did not hold her gaze for long.  
  
Dís sat back on her knees, and watched her brother as he simmered in his memories and his missing and his _anger,_ then wishing . . .  
  
“If you need clean water, I am not Ríli to fetch it from the river for you,” Thorin's voice was a low rumble of sound. “Pick up your feet; there is much still to be done.”  
  
She frowned, and looked at the bucket awaiting her. The water was still relatively clean, she reflected, suddenly thinking that . . .  
  
. . . if Frerin were here, she knew what her brother would do to lift Thorin from his melancholy. Frerin, with his constant smiles and easy laughter, would -  
  
So, without giving her impulse any more thought, she picked up her bucket and dumped it unceremoniously over Thorin's head without a word spoken beforehand in warning.  
  
For a moment, he simply blinked, stunned as the water soaked his hair and dripped down from his beard onto his chest. Dís could not help herself, she laughed as he glared at her. She laughed, and laughed, and _laughed_ , until, finally -  
  
\- she could not say that she was surprised when Thorin retaliated by splashing his bucket at her. She, in turn, flung her wet rag at him, satisfaction filling her as it smacked his face with a wet and sploshing sound.  
  
Of course, such an action meant war, and though she protested through her laughter, she was unable to battle her brother's strength as Thorin dragged her to the underground river and ducked her in – clothes and all. But, she thought as she surfaced - then seeing not of the plain iron or simple linens they wore - Thorin was smiling, truly _smiling_ for the first time in what felt like far too long. She would let him dunk her in the river a dozen times again if such was the price she needed to pay for such a smile. Yet, that did not stop her from splashing him in retaliation, and their battle merely escalated from there.  
  



	84. "I will not take from you, and you will not owe"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel & Ensemble || Prompt: _Assembly_
> 
> Because it was high time for another Glorfindel-appreciation chapter! If you're further interested, the first of its kind was done in Chapter 11, then there are references here to a whole slew of other bits and pieces in this collection.

**Assembly**  
  
He found Elenwë in their usual spot by the river, laying down on her back in the thick green grass and staring up at the leafy canopy created by the thicket of white birch trees overhead. Only, now there was naught of Laurelin's light to shine down on them; casting dancing shapes of green and gold this way and that as the light flickered before their eyes. Instead, there was only the faint glow provided by the blue flame of Elenwë's lantern; fighting a losing battle against the darkness, no matter that it was nearly noon.  
  
Even so, Laurefindil was undeterred as he laid on his back next to her. He pillowed his arms underneath his head, and smiled as if he could still feel the rays of Treelight upon his face. “Ah yes,” he sighed in contentment to say, “the light is, as ever, quite bright here.”  
  
“And your imagination is, as always, far superior to mine,” Elenwë returned dryly.  
  
“Not my imagination,” he did not quite agree, tapping the side of his temple, “but my memory. And there the Light shall ever reside.” But even the forced levity to his tone faded with his last words, and he exhaled a deep breath, staring at the oppressive weight of blue and black above them, seemingly close enough to touch, and nearly smothering with its endless cast. Soon tiring of that, his eyes then fixed on the withering canopy of birch trees; their normally verdant leaves curling and turning grey without the light to sustain them.  
  
And, at last, Laurefindil gently asked, “Why are you not with your family, readying to depart?”  
  
“Turvo does not know whether or not he wishes to follow Nolofinwë's host,” after a long moment Elenwë muttered. He had to concentrate to hear her whisper before the shadows took her words entirely. “Oh, he wishes to not to at all - but his father has no choice but to follow Fëanáro, for leaving the leadership of our people solely in _his_ hands is a tragedy waiting to happen . . . Yet, he is torn; he does not know what to decide, and I must confess that I too am at an impasse. I do not know what my heart wants, yet I am certain that my counsel will be the thing that sways his mind down one path or the other . . . that knowledge is a weight on my shoulders, and it burdens me,” her voice faltered, and she let out a breath in discontentment.  
  
He glanced over, seeing the way she bit her lip and stared unseeingly at the wilting trees. The lantern light on the dark, honey shade of her hair was an odd colour, he decided, unnatural and surreal to the eyes. He frowned, feeling as if he knew what course she would come to choose, and yet slow to form his words to offer counsel – for either path before her. He had been born of a mixed match while the Noldor and the Vanyar dwelt side by side in Tirion, yet he had no siblings to speak of. Thus, the children of his Vanya mother's brother had long been dear to him – and Elenwë more so than all of Hellendur's brood combined . . . thus, he could not quite leave her to grapple with her own mind, either.  
  
“Such indecisiveness is not Elenwë as I have long known her,” he finally said into the dark. His gentle teasing seemed tired without the light.  
  
“The Elenwë you knew is a mother now,” she returned, “and I'd like to choose a safe path upon which that child may grow, and thrive.”  
  
“And you wish your daughter to grow here, truly?” Laurefindil returned, prompting her to reflect honestly.  
  
For Aman _was_ wondrous in its glory, truly, and yet, waiting for them, just out of reach . . . He was not so sure if he could live so blithely and pretend at utopia when just an ocean away the Shadow grew and corrupted everything with its touch. And, the smallest part of him could admit that Fëanáro's impassioned speech had touched something within his heart, as well. He could admit that he yearned for the land of his people's birth, and for that yearning . . .  
  
“What do you see when you look beyond the Sea?” Elenwë finally asked, her voice small as the dark tried to take it from her.  
  
“I see light, beautiful in its imperfection,” Laurefindil answered honestly. It was the only truth he was certain of. “I am confident that we will find the daylight returned to us there.”  
  
Elenwë sighed, as if she could not quite believe him. “When I close my eyes,” she said in a whispered voice, “I see only the black of some deep abyss; I feel never-ending coldness, and I fear that I . . .” she let loose a deep breath, and frowned. “But such thoughts are silly; I shall see the light again, in one form or another, and my daughter will grow in that light, no matter where it shines.” A long moment passed, and she turned her head to look at him, her face considering in the dark. “And you? What path do you see before you?”  
  
He smiled a familiar smile, and did not have to think to make his vow, “I will follow where you go; and serve your kin as I may for as long as the Valar give me to serve. But, you know this already.”  
  
“Yet, sometimes, such words are a comfort to hear again. It is a comfort knowing that, even if I . . .” Elenwë sighed as she turned her head back to the trees again. “But it is easy to foresee dark gleamings of the future when there is naught of the Light to brighten them. I try not to think of such outcomes, and yet . . .” But she swallowed her words, no doubt tired of such dark speeches for the future. When he looked, her brow was creased with consideration, but he then thought it to be the weight of resignation she bore.  
  
He found her hand in the dark, and squeezed it once, comfortingly; she wrapped her fingers around his own like one drowning, and he let himself be an anchor for her so that she could be a strength to those who had need of her in return. Then, he turned his eyes to stare above, already imagining the light shining down over their faces once more, then certain of what course she would choose, and positive of the only path that left for him to follow.  
  
  
  
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.  
  
Tensions were understandably high with both Fingolfin's host and the camp of the Fëanorians settled so close around the opposite shores of Lake Mithrim.  
  
Mostly, the two camps did not cross but for Fëanor's sons coming to visit with their recovering brother in turns, who was being seen to by the Sindarin healers Fingolfin had been able to recruit for the task – they being more skilled in seeing to such a grievous wreckage of the physical form than the Elves of Aman, who had known even less of the Shadow than they had first imagined. Glorfindel did not have much to do with the seven, especially seeing as how Turgon had no interest in Maedhros and his recovery, and he most certainly had no want to mingle with the rest of his uncle's kin. The brittle anger burning in his eyes and the coiled tension leashed in his stride were those Glorfindel could think to understand, with Elenwë still so recently . . .  
  
. . . but no. He could not think about that, not now; not yet. Instead, he could only try to provide what comfort he could to those Elenwë loved best, and if that meant protecting Turgon from his own simmering hurt and rage, then that's what he would do.  
  
Which meant that it was an inevitability, rather than a possibility, for the strained tension between the two houses to manifest itself outright as blows.  
  
It started, oddly enough, with the innocence of children.  
  
Though Celebrimbor had accompanied Curufin his father to their camp to see Maedhros, he had been told in no uncertain terms to keep himself silent and out of the way. To that end, the youth had found the blacksmiths of Fingolfin's group and occupied himself in the temporary forges that had sprung up for the production of steel and mail – which was looking to be a sorely needed thing in this land, more so than they first thought, or would have imagined to expect.  
  
Idril, who had also had a knack for exploring to keep her mind occupied with pleasant things, had been delighted to stumble across an elf her own age – especially one who was an estranged kinsman, at that. Celebrimbor was much as Glorfindel remembered – lanky and still awkward in his bones, with the inherent need to please built into the very fiber of his being, or so it seemed. And, more importantly, he was as innocent as Idril in the events that had sundered their families, and so, when she asked him how to wield the sword that he was folding on the anvil, and Celebrimbor agreed . . .  
  
Glorfindel had been walking with Turgon through the long rows of tents and semi-permanent structures that were still in various stages of being built on Fingolfin's business – for, with Aredhel being often gone beyond their camp for avoiding the Fëanorians in their midst, and Fingon much taken with Maedhros' recovery, their combined duties fell to their brother and father to fulfill. Turgon was mostly silent to the workload heaped upon his shoulders, never mind that Laurefindil nonetheless knew of the strain it placed upon him, knowing that it was not healthy to throw one's self so completely into mind numbing pursuits without first properly dealing with one's grief. . . And yet, he had no time for such further reflections when they turned to see Idril and Curufin's son sparing with the new steel, the light of the midday sun bright over the glitter of the lake and the glint of the sword's edge. Only when Turgon sharply hissed his daughter's name did Celebrimbor slip – turning almost guiltily and forgetting about the sword in his hand for a moment long enough to . . .  
  
It was just a scratch, nothing more, over the skin high on Idril's arm, but it looked much worse as the blood blotted and spread to stain the pale fabric of her sleeve. Glorfindel did not have to know Turgon as well as he did to know that his friend saw red in reply.  
  
“Atar, I am okay,” wisely knowing her father better than most, Idril stepped in front of Celebrimbor and held up her hands in a placating gesture. “It was just a scratch, and it was not Telpe's fault.” Her voice was pitched soothingly, and she looked so much like _Elenwë_ then that Glorfindel had to swallow against the lump in his throat as he too stepped forward to calm Turgon from his anger, not wanting him to take out his rage for Celebrimbor's family where it was not deserved - for Turgon had not yet stopped advancing on the boy, even though he did not yet speak . . . perhaps because he could not yet speak in his anger.  
  
But Idril was kept from saying anything more to calm her father when Celebrimbor's own kin arrived – producing an aggravated sigh from Glorfindel to see so. Celegorm's pale head of hair was more white than gold in the bright, cool sunlight overhead, and his slanted expression was as a knife-cut on his face. But his side, Curufin walked with a wolf's alertness upon seeing the situation, and he had no qualms about cutting in – casting a narrowed look at his son before looking to Turgon. “Kindly step away from my son, Nurtafinwë.”  
  
Turgon flinched, taken from the dangerous expression that had crossed from his face in favor of incredulity – that a _Kinslayer_ would warn him away from violence, when Glorfindel knew he would not have been capable of it, no matter his initial rage.  
  
“She is bleeding,” Turgon said stiffly. “It is your son's doing,” he all but spat the words.  
  
Celebrimbor looked alarmed at that, the ivory tones of his complexion turning even more pale. He stepped forward, and started to say aloud, “Atar, I did not mean -”  
  
Curufin only had to hold up a hand to silence his son; Celebrimbor flinched and ceased his speech, suitably rebuked. Curufin raised a dark brow, and after a moment's mental communication, he said to Turgon, “Yet the sparring was your girl's idea. She should have known the risks involved.”  
  
And Celegorm only snorted at that revealed piece of information. He gave a sharp, harsh bark of laughter to say, “I did not first think any such sort of backbone to exist amongst Fingolfin's house. Are you sure this girl is of Turvo's blood?”  
  
Turgon's expression darkened, and Celegorm only laughed again to see so – clearly amused by the reaction he was able to garner with so little prodding involved. Alarmed by the fierce sort of way he could feel Turgon's fëa fluctuate, lashing at the air around them, Glorfindel wished that the other elf would do them all a favor and _stay silent_.  
  
But it was not to be. “Where is your little Vanya, Turvo?” Celegorm continued to croon. “I forget – did she leave you in Aman, or was it _her_ the Ice took? It is rather difficult to keep everything straight in a family as large as ours, I'm sure you can understand. The last I remembered, it was _she_ , and not you, who fought your battles - ”  
  
Yet, Glorfindel was taken from the glee of remembering how Elenwë had broken the hunter's nose with the butt of her hand the day of Fëanor's speech, when Celegorm's words had turned from harshly addressing Irissë to her brother who moved to defend her – by Turgon stepping forth in a déjà-vu of that same moment to level a fierce blow at Celegorm's face, and was rewarded by the crunching noise of the cartilage in his nose breaking once more.  
  
Yet he did not stop there. Turgon dodged Celegorm's first attempt at retaliation, and tackled the other elf so that they both fell to the ground, their scuffling turning more savage and seriously intending to inflict harm with each passing moment. At first, Glorfindel blinked in surprise – taken aback - for he had never seen Turgon so moved to rage by anything before. Normally, Turgon was like the stone of a sea shore, constantly weathering the ocean's fury and might, and yet, now . . .  
  
Glorfindel then had a more pressing fear: Turgon _was_ taller than Celegorm, but Celegorm was heavier and built like an ox. He had dined well and exercised regularly the last few years, where Turgon had just so recently survived the Helcaraxë and started to regain both muscle mass and strength. For now, his rage and pent up grief would serve him well, but when his momentum waned . . .  
  
With that in mind, Glorfindel moved to cut in and break the two apart. Yet he was startled by Curufin not moving to _help_ him, but instead swinging a fist in his direction. Glorfindel growled and dodged the blow, finding his own rage and pent up frustration lit, thinking fiercely: _if that's how_ _this i_ _s to be_ -  
  
\- time passed, he knew not how much. He only knew that when he blinked the battle-haze back from his eyes Celebrimbor was tugging on his father's arm to draw him away from the fray, and Idril was standing very, very still off to the side of the scuffle. A familiar voice – richly warm and lined with a word of power – rang out and commanded the combatants to stop. Reflexively, Glorfindel found himself obeying, even when he first did not mean to do so. He looked, and saw where Fingon and Maglor had been called for the disturbance their brothers had created – with Fingon having succeeded in shoving Turgon back, while Maglor had to hold an arm bodily around Celegorm in order to restrain him. Celegorm's hair was mused and his nose was broken – again – while a fierce, blinding light burned from the grey-green of his eyes. Even so, he smiled a fey smile, and his teeth gleamed white through the blood filling his mouth.  
  
“What were you thinking?” Fingon turned on his brother to thunder when he was satisfied enough by their truce. Yet, that was exactly the wrong thing to say, Glorfindel thought as Turgon savagely pushed his brother from him, stumbling at the first to regain his balance.  
  
“Look at yourself,” but Fingon was not done, stepping back towards his brother even though every bone in Turgon's tightly held body screamed at him not to do so. “You! A Prince of Finwë's blood scuffling in the dirt where all can see?! Others will follow the example we set, and yet you are content to lead the way in reviling our Uncle's kin, rather than seeking to repair the damage done between our peoples – for the betterment of all. Do you have no shame, brother?” He waved a hand to encompass their audience – who, with a glare from Maglor, slowly began to break up, and turn away.  
  
Turgon gave a disbelieving snort at Fingon's words, before wiping at his nose, which was dripping blood. “Of course, you would first address _me_ so, and not our Kinslaying half-cousins. Your niece is bleeding, your good-sister is dead, but yes, you are quite right: defend _them_ , and leave your true kin behind once more.”  
  
“Turvo, this is not about Elenwë – it cannot be if our family, our _entire_ family, is ever to move forward as one again,” Fingon then gentled his voice to say. He sounded weary, and the dark circles underneath his eyes were more pronounced than when he had first returned from Thangorodrim with a broken Maedhros in hand. Even so, Glorfindel noticed the return of the golden strands to his braids; he was sure Fingon noticed as well.  
  
“Like the Void, this is not about Elenwë!” Turgon fiercely swore to respond. Normally as calm and gentle as the spring rains, his eyes were then bright as with storm-light, and he gestured angrily as he spoke, as if his body still craved a tangible battle to fight. “He stood there and he . . . he laughed for her death; for her _murder_. He _laughed_ , and you . . .” his voice broke on a sound of grief, and he made a slashing gesture with his hand. He gave an incredulous snort, and had to wipe anew at his bleeding nose for doing so. “You may leave, Findekáno, I give you my word that I will not brawl in the street with Kinslayers from this day forth. Go back to _him_ , and leave your family to manage on their own once more – on that note, if any has not been acting fit to their birth and duty it is _you_ , brother. For who has been picking up behind you as you play nursemaid to one who left us to _die_ on that icy tundra? Do you realize the burden on Atar's shoulders? Have you seen Irissë's torment as of late? Do you even _care_ that my wife is _dead_ because _they_ could not keep themselves from malice and violence when peace and calm reasoning were needed more so than any other time? No, of course not - you see only _his_ pain, and that is all that moves you. You sicken me; I cannot stand to look at you right now.”  
  
Fingon's face had paled, and for a long moment everyone was silent in reply to Turgon's impassioned speech – all but for Celegorm, who cackled in delighted amusement before Maglor hissed at him, demanding that he return to the Fëanorian side of the lake until a time when Fingolfin would be gracious enough to accept his apology and invite him back. Celegorm was slow to leave, however, going only when Curufin first turned to depart in a bored manner, calling for Celebrimbor to follow him. The boy looked as if he wanted to say something – anything – to fix the tempers that had been unwittingly sparked on his account, but he instead bowed his head, and dutifully followed his father away.  
  
Waiting for their audience to disperse, Fingon then took a step towards Turgon, and tried to reach out a hand to him – moving slowly, as if confronting a wounded animal in the wild. But Turgon stepped out of his reach, and showed his teeth. His every limb was tightly coiled, and he held himself with a rigid anger that needed the barest of provocations to erupt forth again.  
  
Yet, whatever more that was to be said between the brothers – for good or for ill - Glorfindel decided that Idril did not need to hear. The girl was still standing, tense and pale and all but rooted in her spot, with her soft grey eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at her father. She held a hand over her bleeding arm, but did not look to recognize the sting of the wound beyond that.  
  
Seeing so, Glorfindel sighed, and walked over to the young woman, feeling his heart twist for her. “Come, child, we should get your arm taken care of.”  
  
He glanced at Turgon as they left, who did not seem to notice their departure, and leveled a stiff look at Fingon, who watched them leave with a weary gaze before turning back to his brother.  
  
Idril was silent as they returned to the temporary compound Fingolfin's family shared. Glorfindel did not force her to speak as he gathered what he needed to clean her arm for her, and then set to tending the small wound in silence, waiting for her words to form all the while.  
  
Finally, Idril winced when he dabbed at the wound with an antiseptic, and said, “I know that I am not my Aunt Irissë, but I did not think it to be as difficult as this to wield a weapon.”  
  
Glorfindel looked up to her for her words, then curious. “Why did you not just ask your father for instruction? Or your aunt, or even myself?”  
  
Idril bit her lip, and looked down to find her words. “Atar . . . he does not care for the art of steel, even now that we have arrived in Endórë. As for Aunt Irissë . . . she has not fared well at all with the Fëanorians coming to and fro. And you . . . you have already done so much for my family and me. I did not wish to inconvenience you more . . . and yet . . . so much has happened, and so much _will_ happen. If I was able to defend myself, to take care of myself, then you . . . my father . . . my aunt . . .”  
  
She swallowed, and looked down again. Glorfindel reached over to turn her chin up, smiling warmly to say, “You are no burden, Itarillë, not to myself, and most certainly not to your father. You are a blessing, and so very dearly cherished by all who know you – how can you view yourself as a yoke, when you are instead a refreshment to your family, especially in these days?”  
  
Yet, she bit her lip pensively, and her bright eyes darkened as they filled with the shadow of some great hurt. “Sometimes . . . sometimes, I think that it would have been better if she was not able to save me,” Idril whispered, her voice very small as she spoke. Glorfindel had to strain to hear her words, and he stiffened when he understood them. “If Amil lived, then my father would . . .”  
  
“ - would be equally distraught now,” Glorfindel interrupted fiercely to say. Idril looked dubious, but Glorfindel shook his head to any argument she would make – unwilling to let her go on with that thought still in mind. “He grieves, but his grief would be no different had it been _you_ the Ice took. There is no pain equal to that of losing a mate, other than, perhaps, the pain of losing a child. If . . . if by some cruelty your father had to choose . . .” he swallowed, and found his own grief then bubbling forth. Yet he did his best to swallow it away, wanting instead to touch the wounded spirit before him with as much golden light as he could - assuring the child that what had happened on the Ice was not her fault, and neither was her living where her mother did not something to unduly mourn. Elenwë would not have had it any other way, Glorfindel tried to tell the girl without words. There was nothing a mother wished more than to have her children free from all ills – no matter the cost paid by themselves - and she was at peace with her sacrifice. Truly, there was no other choice she could have made.  
  
“And you?” Idril asked after a moment, her voice heavy as she fought away her wish to cry, having had quite enough of tears already. “I am not my mother, and yet . . .”  
  
“You are equally dear to my heart,” Glorfindel did not hesitate to assure her, “and not solely because of the connection you bear to your mother.” This he smiled to say, moving his hand from her chin to fondly touch her cheek – glad when he was rewarded with the smallest of smiles for his efforts. She took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When she blinked, her eyes were clear.  
  
Glorfindel nodded with satisfaction to feel the healing glow of her spirit, knowing it would be a long road to true recovery before her, but grateful that this latest twist in that path had been subdued and laid to rest, at least. “Now,” he said on a bright tone, “let's get this arm wrapped up properly, and then I will see about getting a real sword commissioned for you upon the morrow. What say you to that?”  
  
Idril's smile was still hesitant in reply, but it was nonetheless there – like the first touch of the sun's light after the dark. Glorfindel reached forward, and wiped away what remained of her tears, then confident that no more would fall, at least for that day.  
  
  
  
  
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There was, Glorfindel decided, nothing quite like the sting of an Orc arrow to make him grit his teeth and wish that he had never crossed the Ice to begin with - or, he amended, wish that he had never agreed to follow his King's sister, at least, who was even now watching Ecthelion flush the poison from his shoulder-wound with no fair amount of grumbling underneath his breath. While Glorfindel could incline his head and follow where he was needed – for which he felt that Aredhel most certainly _did_ – his friend was not as gracious with his understanding as he, and the dark haired elf muttered and cast slurs underneath his breath that Glorfindel was nearly certain he intended for their Lady to hear.  
  
Yet, he was morbidly pleased to see, the snap of the arrow as it was removed from his skin was one of the few things that actually had Aredhel focusing on the here and now – so narrowed had her zealous determination been through the shadowed ways of Nan Dungortheb thus far. He looked at her return to awareness with hope, wanting to see more of the woman he had long ago known surface to overpower the more recent, fey cast of her eyes.  
  
Even so, it was not until they had a meager fire built that night – looking all the while into the mists for the near certainly of emerging shadows from within, no matter that Ecthelion and Egalmoth scouted the perimeter of their camp – that she spoke of his injury.  
  
“You took an arrow for me,” Aredhel muttered, her voice little more than a whisper as the faint firelight threw dancing shades of light over the pale – much too pale, even Glorfindel could see – shade of her skin.  
  
“You sound surprised, my lady,” Glorfindel replied.  
  
She did not speak for a moment. She merely ran an absent hand over the curve of her bow, her thoughts clearly far away as she gazed at the yellow tongues of fire, struggling to burn against the night. “I am sorry that I have gotten you into this mess,” she did not incline her proud head to say so, but there was regret in her tone, nonetheless. “If I could, I would have forced my brother to let me go alone, and saved you this.”  
  
“You know why Turgon could not have done so,” Glorfindel replied, and though his words were at first gentle, he could not help the stiffness that entered his voice to follow, “He does not quite understand your need to seek out the Fëanorian, at that. Few of us do.”  
  
“Even I do not,” Aredhel at last admitted. “Tyelko is mercurial and capricious, and he drives me to rage and vexation more often than not. Yet, for all these years our hurts have gone unresolved between us . . . this has gone on long enough, and it is my hope that he feels the same way as I. I . . . I only know that it's as a burning within me, a _need_ to be anywhere but trapped behind Gondolin's stale walls. Even more so than making things right with _him_ , I feel that I need . . .”  
  
But she swallowed, and could not find her words again to speak. Her eyes were then shaded, and he could feel the miserable glow to her spirit alongside her fervor and her determination. She had been suffocating in Gondolin, breathing without air for much too long, this Glorfindel knew with an internal sigh. Yet, looking to find one's happiness restored through another being . . . there was a danger in that, he thought, and though better would it have been had she first found contentment within herself, Glorfindel was quite unsure how she could have gone about that while safe and secluded behind Gondolin's walls.  
  
Aredhel stared down at the waning tongues of fire, and he thought to see an affinity with the stubborn heat, struggling to take flame, reflected in her gaze.  
  
“This is something you must do,” Glorfindel rolled his shoulders to surmise her words. “I think that I can respect that, even if I do not quite understand.”  
  
For a moment there was a flickering of warmth in Aredhel's eyes – returning her, for a moment, to the woman full of spring he had known in Aman, now so long ago. That next morning, he was not quite surprised to awaken from his shallow slumber to see that she was long gone – determined not to put any more of them in further danger for following the queer wishes of her heart. And yet, even while they fruitlessly searched the mists for her, Glorfindel knew, as with a whisper, that they would never find her again.  
  
  
  
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When the arrow was snapped free of his leg, Glorfindel sat back and thought through the brief, bright surge of pain: _I have been here before._  
  
Only, it was not Aredhel looking down on him with worry and regret struggling to find their way through the apathy her longing had placed on her heart. The grey eyes staring at him were a bit too dark in colour to be of Turgon's kin, he thought next - nearer to chips of obsidian than Aredhel's gaze of storm-cloud grey; while the black of his hair was an equally dark grey, matte in colour, rather than the glossy blue-black shade of a raven's wing the House of Finwë so proudly bore. The boy was clearly his father's son, even though he held himself up to lofty heights and claimed the way of his mother's people in all things.  
  
And, Glorfindel recalled wryly, his getting himself into trouble – trouble which it took much pain and effort for others to get him out of – was enough like his mother for him to see Aredhel more than reflected within her son's uncanny gaze.  
  
Only, rather than being thankful for Glorfindel's timely intervention - or standing suitably shamed for there first being the _need_ for any such intervention - Maeglin only frowned as if he did not understood what had just transpired. He blinked his large, dark eyes as he leaned down to pick up the discarded shaft of the arrow, running a hesitant hand over the fletching before saying, uncertainly. “ . . . you did this for me?”  
  
For a moment, there was so much of the child that Maeglin truly was shine through from underneath the proud and haughty way he tried to carry himself. Glorfindel started to see it, suddenly sad, though he could not quite tell himself why he was.  
  
“It is my duty to protect the House of Turgon,” he said, trying not to wince as Ecthelion swatted at his good leg and told him to hold still with his customary gruffness. “And that includes you, my prince.”  
  
“Your duty,” Maeglin echoed in a whisper. “Yes . . . of course.”  
  
Glorfindel watched as Maeglin picked at the arrow's fletching in an absent manner, pulling out one ruined feather at a time. He frowned as he understood the way his meaning was taken. “You misunderstand me - I would have done so for you, regardless of your blood,” he looked to the young elf, suddenly wanting to say anything that would help the closed off, pale look that stared at him from a face shaped so much like Aredhel's that it hurt to see. “And yet, my lord Turgon's family is especially dear to me, and you are of that family, are you not?”  
  
Maeglin looked up from the arrow then, and after a long, considering moment, he cast the remnants of the feathers aside. He inclined his head condescendingly, regally, even – but in a manner that was not Turgon, a ghost of thought whispered across Glorfindel's mind with the familiar force of _warning_. This premonition was one he hated to feel, wanting his senses to be wrong, so very wrong, this time more so than any other.  
  
“Indeed, I am,” Maeglin replied at last. “And, as always, the House of Turgon thanks you for your loyal service,” he continued in a clipped, haughty tone. “You have my gratitude, Captain.”  
  
Maeglin said nothing more than that. He simply gave one last disinterested glance, and turned on his heel to leave them be, his black robes swishing silently behind him, and then he was gone.  
  
Glorfindel watched him go, and Ecthelion glanced up only once to follow his gaze. “Just like his mother,” his friend muttered moodily before tying off the last of the bandage, his task nearly complete.  
  
And Glorfindel frowned, his thoughts troubled and far away as he echoed, “Yes, his mother,” in a voice that, nonetheless, did not quite agree.  
  
  
  
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There were, almost disgustingly, sounds of quiet chatter coming from behind the long rows of shelves in the nearly deserted library.  
  
Shaking his head, Glorfindel thumbed through a rather dryly written tome detailing the merits of scaled and lamellar armor versus ringed and plated mail, giving only half an ear to the goings on at the table beyond him. If he stood just so, he could see through the three rows of nearly full shelves, and thus fulfill the unofficial role of 'chaperone' he found himself in, while still giving the other two elves their space – space which was not being utilized _at all_ , at least in Glorfindel's rather frank opinion of the matter.  
  
He sighed, and shut the dull book with a satisfying thud before returning it to its place on the shelf. Gil-galad kept a well stocked library, it was true, but Glorfindel had never cultivated the heart of a lore-master, not even in the slightest, and he truly did prefer more active pursuits . . . which this most decidedly _was not_. He next picked up a slightly more interesting book about the forms of laminar armor favored by smiths from Gondolin in the First Age, before sighing to see the historical inaccuracies occurring already on the first page alone, and closed that book as well.  
  
He was, he thought with a black sort of amusement, growing to be much too old for his own good. Scanning the titles, and looking for something a bit more sillier than the dry academia surrounding him, he frowned to consider the events that had he and his lord in Lindon in the first place. The past year had seen the sobering reemergence of the Nine Rings Celebrimbor had created with Sauron – or so they suspected these new creatures of the Shadow to be. Three of the Nine they were nearly certain belonged to the high nobility of Númenor, where Tar-Ancalimon was apparently continuing in his father's hostile ways towards the Valar and Eru himself, and holding his crown as a yoke over the burdened shoulders of his people for his doing so. Disturbingly, the Eagles of Manwë had left their roosts in the great island kingdom that last season prior, and Gil-galad's council was now called together to see if they could perhaps send envoys to Númenor to speak reason into the King's heart – and more subtly seek out the Captain of the Nine, as he was suspected and rumored to be.  
  
For that end, Elrond had attended Gil-galad's summons – journeying to Lindon from Imladris for the first time since the Siege of Eregion and the founding of the Hidden Valley, now well over three-hundred years ago. While Gil-galad had hopes that Elrond himself would be amongst those envoys sent to Númenor, Glorfindel knew that his lord was hesitant to do so, for which he could begin to understand in the small way he could. The entire meeting with the court thus far had placed a weary shadow on Elrond's heart, and the only good thing their trip to Lindon had brought about was Elrond's being reunited with Celebrían – whom he had been communicating with by letters for the last three-hundred years since she left Imladris for Lindon with her parents.  
  
And, Glorfindel thought with a smile and a strong surge of fondness, he had to hand it to the young woman – she was trying her absolute hardest to get a confession out of Elrond before they were parted again. The girl had a stubborn tenacity about her that was no small part of Galadriel and Celeborn combined, and though Elrond had not spoken aloud that which was as clear as day to everyone else when she first left Imladris, Celebrían was not at all daunted in her determination to see this time as _different_.  
  
Glorfindel angled himself so that he could glimpse the couple again – Celebrían with her silver head bent over a scroll, the warm light through the high windows casting shades of gold in her hair as she absently worried the tip of the feather quill over her bottom lip. She hummed underneath her breath as she looked over the passage they were debating, while the clamor of the gulls and the song of the waves meeting the seashore played just beyond. Elrond was staring at her, Glorfindel was pleased to see, his expression softer and more at ease than Glorfindel had seen him in centuries.  
  
“No, I believe you've interpreted the passage wrong,” Celebrían sounded reasonably confident to say. Glorfindel had to hide his snort of amusement – able as he was to count on one hand the people who would be certain enough to counter the lore-master in such a way. “Here,” she scooted her chair closer, thus allowing Elrond to see the precise wording she referred to – or so it would seem. “The verb is given in the present tense. See the inflection on the vowel? It changes the meaning of the verse entirely.”  
  
The poem – of a royal dwarrowdam who had to choose between suitors to give her kingdom an heir, but would not make a choice while the suitor she favored most was away at war; and her trials and willy maneuvers to buy herself and her love more time – was one Glorfindel had heard _quite_ enough about for the last hour. There were very few amongst the Firstborn in Middle-earth who were honored with the rare privilege of knowing Khuzdul – especially its ancient variations - and what little Elrond already knew from Maedhros Fëanorian had been compounded by Celebrían's knowledge, whose time spent both living in, and often passing to and from Moria, won her a close friendship with Nothri Stonehand and a rare glimpse into that largely unknown world.  
  
Yet, that did not change the fact of the matter: that it was dull, _dull_ listening to one who knew not a word of the language himself. Glorfindel sighed, and cast a glance around the bookshelf once more, hoping for a title to jump out at him from the drudging parade of dully coloured spines.  
  
\- only to hear a wry, amused voice say at his back: “You are doing quite well at giving them their space.” There was only a slight disapproval in Erestor's voice, one that Glorfindel snorted to hear.  
  
“They are discussing _Dwarven grammar_ ,” Glorfindel shook his head to say, whispering so as not to be overheard. “I have never successfully courted a woman myself, and yet, something tells me that the exact parameters of Aulëan verbs is not the way to a woman's heart – nor is it the way to strike up any sort of mood a _chaperone_ would be required for.”  
  
Erestor shook his head, but Glorfindel could clearly see the wry sort of amusement that he tried to hide – the steward, at times, reminding him so much of Ecthelion and his dour demeanor that he . . .  
  
But he swallowed, and forced a brighter smile to his face in direct opposition to the weight of his old memories. “Look for yourself if you don't believe me,” he stepped back so that Erestor could peer through the shelves. “And _that_ after all of my hard work. Do you know how _difficult_ it is to be truly alone with someone in the capitol? I haven't had to run interference this badly since Idril and Tuor courted, and at least _they_ were grateful for the time I won them – they did not waste it on translating _Khuz_ _d_ _ul_.”  
  
He crossed his arms, and leaned against the shelf in a way that had Erestor raising a disapproving brow at him – one that did not move Glorfindel in the slightest.  
  
He too peered as Erestor peered, and they both heard: “The original translation is wrong in its conclusion,” Celebrían was then explaining. She did not look down at the scroll, but rather, stared intently at Elrond, as if fixing every word she said all the more so by meeting his eyes. “She is not giving up; she is still waiting, no matter the future, no matter how long it takes her to see her love returned to her. Do you not see?”  
  
“The original verse may very well say so,” at last, Elrond allowed her. “Perhaps, the translator was merely trying to present an alternate outcome – that while not what she most wants, the time she has to wait truly is long. If she were to look elsewhere, there could be no fault assigned to her for doing so.”  
  
“Have you ever met a Dwarf with their eye set on a goal?” Celebrían returned dryly. This her eyes fairly glittered to say. “Such tenacity on her part is not too farfetched a thing, in my experience.”  
  
“And you?” Elrond asked, his voice then quiet with a low intensity. “Do you consider her determination to be farfetched?”  
  
“No,” Celebrían replied without hesitation. “I would call it admirable. If her affection waned underneath the strain of time – no matter the years and their passing - then she was not worthy of him in the first place.” They were sitting very close to each other now, with hardly a whisper between them in pretense of looking over the same passage on the scroll. “Only,” she continued softly, “if I were her, I would perhaps caution him not to tarry in his duty for too long, but that is simply the flaw of impatience on her part . . . on my part.”  
  
Her words were little more than a whisper by the end of her speaking, and Glorfindel watched as her gaze flickered down, and she held her breath. A heartbeat passed, and she seemed to wage some quiet war within herself. Even so, for all of her strong words, when she closed the space between them to seek a kiss, she did so as a question. Elrond was still for a very long moment in reply, perhaps questioning the wisdom of doing so, before giving into the affection, and returning it. Gently, he cupped her face in his hands, and deepened the kiss, for which she only seemed to smile in relief to feel, and Glorfindel then turned from them, a matching smile growing on his own face – one he could not quite hide away.  
  
“Well,” Glorfindel could not help but remark. “Perhaps there is something to Aulëan verbs after all. I shall have to remember that for the future.”  
  
Erestor merely shook his head at his words, and after the passing of a long moment, he looked ready to move forward and interrupt the couple - but Glorfindel shook his head, and tugged him back.  
  
“Who knows how long it will take us to overthrow the shadow cast by Mordor?” he frowned to say. “She speaks lightly of waiting, but my heart tells me that the sun will rise and fall many times before Sauron's defeat – even by our reckoning of time and its passing. Let them have this moment, and leave them be.”  
  
Glorfindel glanced back through the shelves, pleased to see the two still quite lost in each other, and felt a sort of triumph fill him for the sight. His grin only widened as he looped an arm over Erestor's shoulders, and said, “Besides, _that_ is a much more sensible use of the peace and quiet of the library, in my opinion. And, in the meantime, there was this fascinating tome about laminar armor in Gondolin that I now find my duty and solemn obligation to set straight. Perhaps you could aid me in this endeavor.”  
  
  
  
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In many ways, Aman was much as he remembered from his youth, and even more recently from his brief time spent there after his death and rebirth – before the wishes of his lord, and the wishes of his own heart sent him back to the lands of Middle-earth again.  
  
Though the sunlight was not the light of the Trees, it still seemed to shine brighter in the Undying Lands. The mountains were taller, the foliage greener, the water clearer, and there was _something_ about the very air one breathed – all together, it was an atmosphere that Glorfindel hoped would do his young charges well as they settled themselves into the peace and grace of Valinor as so many before them had.  
  
. . . for Elladan did not handle passing the Veil of the West well at all, and he was now pale and wan, no matter the peace and healing of the land they arrived in – with that which was so clearly man-hearted in him weakening underneath the immortal pulse of the land. By his side, Elrohir seemed to be taking in much of his twin's discomfort upon himself, perhaps regretting that his brother made his choice for immortality based in large part upon his own wishes for the fate of the Elves. Glorfindel watched the pair, already able to see how there would be a battle to wage for Elladan, and Elrohir by extension, to settle into true contentment and happiness – one last battle to fight after several lifetimes worth of such battles. And yet, it was a battle he was determined to wage, looking forward as Glorfindel did to the peace and the rest promised at its end.  
  
Though normally there was nothing he enjoyed better than riling Galadriel's husband – really, the Sinda just made it so _easy_ to do so – there had been an unspoken sort of truce between them during those last few months spent in the fading glory of Lothlórien as they waited for Arwen to force her spirit to depart from this world to find her husband in the next. Though Celeborn professed that he would be content amongst the trees of Middle-earth for all time, Glorfindel could see how the toll Arwen and Aragorn's passing took on his remaining grandchildren affected him, as well, and with the strained bond between him and Galadriel, with the Sea between them for so many years, even he accepted the light that Glorfindel had to share. For the first, Glorfindel had thought to know true weariness in those final days sailing to Aman, ever buoying the spirits around him as he was with the light of his own fëa. Though he was content for his several millennia spent serving the family he loved so very dearly, his strength was admittedly tapped as the golden coast of Valinor came into view, and he looked forward to the healing he knew that the ways of the West would have to offer for himself, as well as for his companions.  
  
Yet, he found his strength returned to him with those he met on the quays of Alqualondë – unsure of whom to look to first for all of the dearly beloved faces he now had to greet him.  
  
The twins were immediately embraced by their parents – and Elladan gave way to outright tears to see Celebrían restored to health and happiness once more, his overwhelming guilt and self-loathing for his perceived failure on that long ago day in the mountains then starting to scab over and truly heal as he was held close and cradled as if he was still a child. Glorfindel watched the newly reunited family, his heart heavy for the missing place amongst them as he shouldered the pack he carried – full to the brim with the letters and journals Arwen had kept throughout her life, along with those her husband and children and grandchildren had written to their elven kin. Besides that, he had sketches and portraits and family anecdotes to share aplenty – and that was a day of laughter and tears that Glorfindel was already looking forward to, ready as he was to honor his promise through to the very end.  
  
Yet, until then, he turned from the happy family – smiling to glance at Celeborn and Galadriel's more subdued reunion, delighting to see that Celeborn did not know whether to look between his wife or his daughter – to approach the few figures gathered further back on the quay. Immediately he saw all those absent - no doubt waiting for a later time in an endeavor not to bombard those newly arrived - and already planned out how he could get Erestor and Ecthelion side by side without the world ending – or, more accurately, _his_ world. But, until then, he walked to where Turgon and Elenwë were standing side by side further back on the docks. Without thinking, he picked up his pace, feeling his heart quite alight in his chest as he looked on them for the first time since his rebirth, now so many centuries ago.  
  
Reflexively he went to bow to Turgon, able to honestly say that he had held onto his oath of fealty, and the more personal oath he'd swore to protect his family – all of his family – to the best of his ability, for as long as he was able to do so. Yet he was kept from his bow when Turgon wryly protested, “There are too many heads who once knew crowns in Valinor as it is. We no longer observe such things – and you have never had to bow before me, at that, my friend.”  
  
Turgon embraced him outright, such a gratitude and affection in his embrace that Glorfindel closed his eyes to feel. He felt tears in his eyes for seeing dear Elenwë once more - for the short amount of time he knew as a one of the Twice-born before his return to Middle-earth was not nearly enough – and he did not think before sweeping her into an embrace and spinning her about in a way he had not done since they both were children, or so it seemed.  
  
She laughed as he did so, and the sound of her joy was a balm all of its own. His spirit seemed to drink hers in almost greedily, and he had so much to say then bubble from his mouth, and not nearly the time enough in which to speak it all at once.  
  
When he sat her down, Elenwë was gazing past him – no doubt curious for the family she had heard so much about, but had yet to meet – before shaking her head. “There will be time for that soon enough,” Turgon assured his wife. “For now, let them be.”  
  
She nodded, and fell into place to walk on Glorfindel's left while Turgon walked at his right. The sun was low in the sky above their heads, painting the white sands and gently murmuring surf in shades of gold and red, beautifully so, and he felt his legs itching after so many days spent at sea.  
  
Perhaps understanding, the couple walked with him as they gave the reunited family on the docks a moment in which to collect themselves.  
  
“Do you ever regret the time you spent bound to our family?” Elenwë at last asked. When he looked, the setting sunlight was reflected in the green-brown of her eyes, and he stared.  
  
“I found a light,” he shrugged to say, remembering their conversation during the Darkening, now so many years ago, “and I made it my own. There could be no regret found in that.”  
  
“Even so, I do not think that you quite understand, dear one. You _were_ that light, for so very many over the years,” Elenwë smiled softly to say, resting her head against his shoulder as they walked. “I can only thank you for all you have done. There is no way in words or deeds to ever express how much -”  
  
“ - you cannot pay a debt when there is no debt to owe,” Glorfindel shook his head to say. “You must know by now how dearly I love you – and _all_ of yours. I have no regret for the cast of my days, and I would do it all over if I were asked to.”  
  
He looked first from Elenwë, to Turgon, and could not quite decide where to settle his gaze, and for how long. He sighed, and felt his spirit fill, more content then than he could have first conceived of being upon returning to Aman.  
  
“Well,” Elenwë at last shook her head in that determined way of hers, “I would first advise that you look to _you_ for the foreseeable future to come. You see, the centuries here in Aman without you gave me quite the time to keep my eyes open, and I believe I have found just the match -”  
  
“ - careful, my friend,” Turgon needlessly counseled, “for she has had many years in which to contemplate this.”  
  
“ - Elenwë,” Glorfindel interrupted gravely, even as Turgon spoke, “the last time you tried to play matchmaker – over _four Ages_ of the world ago now – was an incident that I prefer not to think on, not in this life, nor in the last.”  
  
“That,” Elenwë waved her hand imperiously to say, “was an oversight on my part. But this time -”  
  
“ - Elenwë,” Glorfindel sighed fondly, “I have not yet been back for an hour total, and you are already trying to throw me away again.”  
  
“Never that,” she assured him to say. “I only . . . I only want to see you find as much happiness as you have brought to others over the years.”  
  
“And right now I know no happiness equal to being returned to you,” Glorfindel smiled to assure her. “I have had quite the family to call my own over the years – you need not worry for that.”  
  
For it was true: he had watched Idril grow, and become a wife and mother herself, and he had known no greater honor than in giving his life so that she and hers could continue to live in what peace and happiness they could. Then, upon returning to Middle-earth, he had watched Idril's grandson grow from a youth still grieving over the death of his brother to a great leader and healer of many ills. He had held Elrond and Celebrían's children at each of their births and loved them all as if they were his own, as much as he had done so with Arwen's children and her children's children . . . Every generation he had known of Turgon's house had been as a blessing to his days, and he felt his heart quite full with those loves, so much so that he did not, at times, know how he could carry such a great love within himself without bursting from it.  
  
And now . . .  
  
He looked to see Turgon staring at the sea, perhaps thinking of the generations that Glorfindel had guarded and protected in his place, before smiling a soft smile, “Before we give Elenwë time to set you up with one, or all, of these woman, perhaps you'd settle with resting from the journey, and beginning your stories over supper? These next days will be quite full, I foresee, and you will need your strength.”  
  
“I look forward to them,” Glorfindel replied in all honestly. “Let them come.”  
  
Elenwë held tighter onto his arm for his saying so, and Turgon's smile was soft in the waning light as they walked forward. This time, Glorfindel did not glance once over the sea, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Laurefindil** : Glorfindel  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Itarillë** : Idril  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin


	85. "these were your loves, your victims"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor/Canonical Wife & Ensemble Fëanorians || Prompt: _Chocolate_
> 
> At first, I had no idea what to write for this prompt, but with the advent of Caranthir the stress-baker thanks to chatting with amnevitah in the comment section, what started as a short, happy drivel soon turned into _this_ , and now here we are. This is a follow-up to chapter 77, where Maglor's wife was introduced, so it may help to read that one first, also.
> 
> So, enjoy! As much as you can. ;)

**Chocolate  
  
** Formenos was, as ever, cold and dark compared to the rich, golden splendor of Aman as a whole.  
  
Yet, the north of Valinor was home to the kin of his maternal grandmother, and Makalaurë had always held an affinity in his heart for the rugged, wild forestlands; with their towering evergreens and silver rivers and laughing cascades, glittering under the half-light that existed this far from the Trees. The stars were brighter here, the very air itself sharper, and summers spent in his family's northern home were always a cherished, honored place amongst his memories.  
  
However, his kinder memories now had a stain attached to them as he helped his wife down from her horse, watching as Nyarissë cast a careful eye over the towering edge of the forest, throwing dark shadows upon the seemingly never-ending twilight around them. More so did her eyes linger on the carefully kept gardens and sprawling manor house that stood apart from the small Noldorin town further to the west in the forest, but he did not have to be bound to her soul to see the brief moment of disappointment in her eyes, nor did he need to be holding her hand to know the way her fingertips flexed, as if fighting to keep from trembling.  
  
“It is . . . beautiful, in it's own way,” she finally commented. He watched where she struggled to keep her expression positive, but her smile was a fixed thing on her face, with brittle edges and a forced center.  
  
“It is not Alqualondë,” he said slowly, softly, thinking of their home - where the air was heavy with warmth and the breeze ever smelled of sea-salt. “But the lighting is similar.”  
  
“In a way,” Nyarissë agreed, albeit slowly. “I . . . I cannot feel the sea here, even as I could in Tirion,” she at last whispered. “But I shall become used to that,” she concluded firmly. Her mouth made a thin line, and her brow furrowed with her statement.  
  
She squeezed his fingers, and he kept hold of her hand as they turned to face the house. Even so, neither of them moved to approach. He swallowed, feeling his pulse speed in his chest as he briefly toyed with the impulse he had to put her back on her horse and urge her to return to her folk on the coast again. Her family would be happy to receive her, he knew – happier than when she left with him, with their normally welcoming eyes hard and their spirits closed off so that he did not have to feel their silent disapproval - and the twelve years, though long, would pass as a blink of the eyes in the face of the centuries they had before them. It was his choice to share in his father's temporary exile; that choice, however, did not have to be one she shared.  
  
“No,” Nyarissë's voice was as the stroke of a sword, cutting through his thoughts. He focused, and found the deep-water shade of her eyes locked upon his own, shining as two chips of hard blue stone. “Do not think to bid me to leave again.”  
  
He frowned, even so, and was kept from uttering just that by the equally firm cast of her spirit, pressing in against him – informing him that any attempt on his part to make her see reason would only gouge a wound in their bond, one that he was ill to inflict. She did not agree with his father's actions, this he more than knew, but he also knew that she was as worried as he for the fraying strands that now bound the House of Finwë together. For so long there had been tensions between his father and his half-siblings – with Nolofinwë in particular - but over the last few decades, ever since Melkor's release from Námo's keeping, those threads had frayed until fit to snap, and such a bitter resentment and toxic paranoia had lately developed - now festering as an open wound where once it was merely a bruise, tender, but ever attempting to heal.  
  
None had been truly surprised when Fëanáro moved on his half-brother in violence beneath the Mindon, and yet, surprising to all had been the Valar themselves stepping in to judge the matter over his grandfather's jurisdiction. For the Ainur to step in with what was, at its deepest root, a family matter, and enforce their own penalty, their own judgment . . . Finwë, who had been trying to coax peace between his sons since the moment of Nolofinwë's birth, had been incensed that the Valar – who had called the Firstborn to the West as friends, not as overlords – had dared insert themselves and thus deepen the rift through their actions. To show his displeasure, he had decided to accompany his eldest son north to Formenos to see his exile from Tirion alongside him. Makalaurë, and each of his brothers had followed in kind, unable to do anything else when their father called.  
  
Even so, Makalaurë uncomfortably tried to imagine Maitimo drawing a sword on him in anger . . . and his father supporting his brother, even unto exile – no matter the reasons to the otherwise Finwë undoubtedly gave to Nolofinwë. Makalaurë had never disliked his half-uncle - he respected him, certainly, and there was a fondness in his heart for Nolofinwë that _could_ be love if he had known the opportunity to develop such a thing; and he cared for - even loved - his half-cousins. At that moment, he did not envy Nolofinwë his heavy crown and cold throne in Tirion, taken by de facto with his father far in the north with his half-brother, leaving him to oversee the court of the Noldor – some of whom even agreed with Fëanáro's right to anger, and coldly disapproved of a son that was not _Míriel's_ holding the scepter of Finwë in his place.  
  
Makalaurë sighed, and once again looked to the edge of the forest. Twelve years, he thought then. Twelve years were not so long at all. They could persevere through this, and upon returning home to Alqualondë, things could be set to rights once more.  
  
He exhaled, even as Nyarissë echoed, “Twelve years; they shall be no more than a blinking.” As ever, her mind was unerringly in tune with his own.  
  
She squeezed his hand once more, and he returned the gesture, warmly smiling as he reflected that there was still a light to be found in the cool dusk of Formenos: he carried it by his side in the form of his wife.  
  
With his thoughts then more at ease, and his heart beating out a determined tempo in his chest, they settled their horses and then turned towards the house, which, surprisingly, smelled sweetly of chocolate when they entered.  
  
Curiously, Makalaurë tilted his head as he inhaled, taking in the scent of rich baked goods as they filled the house in a direct opposition to the chill on the air outside. He undid the ties to his cloak, glancing towards the kitchens as he did so, but he was kept from further investigation by two long shadows breaking off from the dark corridor to the left of the wide and airy foyer.  
  
No matter the circumstances surrounding their meeting, he could not help but smile to see his youngest two siblings. Though he had made a point to involve himself in the Ambarussa's growth and development since that first time he had brought Nyarissë home to meet his family, the fact remained that there was still a distance between Tirion and Alqualondë, and he did not see them as much as he would have liked. The twins had already reached their adult heights and full breadth of frame - standing taller than Curufinwë, and just shorter than himself - with matching lithe forms that nonetheless held a deceptive, willowy strength. Different than both Nerdanel's fiery waves and the rich scarlet tresses that Maitimo shared with their mother, their straight red hair was so dark that it may as well have been black, and Finwë's grey in their eyes was nothing more than a faint glimmer of pearlescent pigment, adding to the already ethereal quality of their dual stares - stares which now locked on him with joy and welcome in their depths. Their smiles were identical as one of the twins reached out to embrace him, and the second welcomed Nyarissë, each moving in perfect tandem with the other.  
  
They grew to be so old, so quickly, he thought with a wave of nostalgia as he embraced his brother – Pityafinwë, he recognized, glancing to where he wore two braids behind his right ear, where Telufinwë wore only one. The Ambarussa were just days into their fiftieth year, he then realized, frowning to recall that there had been no celebration for that important milestone - for their fiftieth begetting day had instead seen their father and grandfather standing before the circle of the Valar for their judgment, and such lighter, happier things were all but forgotten.  
  
Makalaurë's frown deepened, then wondering if they could have a celebration of sorts here, now, and yet . . . with the cool shadows of Formenos, and Nerdanel refusing to leave Tirion behind for her own disgust and dismay at her husband's actions . . . Any sort of celebration they could arrange would not have been all that it should have been, and that thought saddened him.  
  
Even so, he forced a smile to his face as he embraced Telufinwë next, concentrating on the flare of affection that he felt for the youngest of his siblings, then refusing to linger on anything else.  
  
“Something,” he remarked as the twins stepped away, one mirroring the other stride for stride, motion for motion, “smells exceptionally good.”  
  
“Carnistir has been baking again,” Pityafinwë remarked wryly in answer.  
  
“He claims that such is for Telperinquar's instruction -” Telufinwë picked up his twin's speech.  
  
“ - but it soothes his own nerves, we think,” Pityafinwë finished.  
  
“Better the cook-ware take the brunt of his temper than we,” Telufinwë shrugged to say.  
  
“And it is distraction enough for us all when Atar does show himself from his workrooms,” Pityafinwë's eyes took on an edge that his voice did not reflect, his tone ever remaining level and without infliction. Yet, Makalaurë reflected, he had never heard them speak with anything else – not in joy, and not in anger.  
  
He sighed, however, at the cold feeling he could nonetheless feel from the one spirit they shared. He, at least, had kinder memories of his father than they, and his earliest years with his parents at the zenith of their relationship would ever be cherished ones that he drew out and considered whenever his recollections turned unduly dark. With a frown, a part of him wondered why the Ambarussa had even bothered coming north in the first place. He had been surprised to hear that they had left Nerdanel behind for the father who had viewed his youngest sons through eyes that denied their very existence, as if by refusing to look, he would not see the fine lines chipping into the foundation of his family. Makalaurë could not understand how, or why, they could follow the father who had never followed them -  
  
_-_ _no doubt, t_ _heir reasons are_ _much_ _the same as your own,_ _beloved_ , a voice whispered into his mind. He glanced, and though Nyarissë did not turn from giving his brothers her polite attention, her hand tightened about his own. He felt the faintest glimmer of anger, protective in its shape, flare from her spirit before she carefully tucked it away again – and he then understood that her reasons for coming north were more than she would have first professed them to be. Such was not to wholly stand faithfully by his side - but to hold herself as a shield, rather than an anchor alone.  
  
In reply, he tightened his grip about her fingers, and exhaled, making what he could of her peace his own.  
  
After their pleasantries were concluded, they followed the Ambarussa towards the kitchens, where the warm smell of hot sugar and melted chocolate blurred together with the buttery smells of flaky crusts in a mouthwatering array. His stomach rumbled, then reminding him of how he had been too distracted to eat on their journey north - especially remembering, as he did, his younger brother's truly blessed culinary gifts. By the time they turned the corner to see Carnistir wearing his customary apron, with his cheeks red against the heat filling the kitchen from the active burning of the oven, Makalaurë's smile was true as he cast a glance about, already wondering what he could steal from the veritable sea of small tarts and pastries and cakes cooling on the furthest counter. It looked as if Carnistir had dealt with his own restless energy by going through the pantries of Formenos in an attempt to seemingly feed twelve times what their numbers would be.  
  
Well, Makalaurë allowed, Tyelkormo would eat twice his weight in the desserts, and he himself would try to match his brother in that endeavor, so perhaps Carnistir's efforts were not _too_ overdone.  
  
At Carnistir's side, his matching apron doing but little to place a matching confidence in his hands, their only nephew was bent over before the oven, peeking inside to test the doneness of a batch of scones – which Makalaurë could tell, even from the distance, that Telperinquar had burnt.  
  
“You can manage a forge-furnace, and keep molten ores at temperature to mold; and yet a simple _scone_ is proving to be your undoing?” Carnistir tugged on one of Telperinquar's braids, causing the youth to jump, as if surprised by the gesture. With doing so, he narrowly missed burning his hand on the hot brick siding of the oven - outside of the aforementioned forge, he had yet to develop Fëanáro's famed grace for the lanky clumsiness of his youth.  
  
“I am doing better, I thought,” even so, Telperinquar protested, his eyes narrowing in a fierce sort of determination that was all a marked gesture of Fëanárian pride. His voice broke with his saying so - another downside of his years, Makalaurë thought with sympathy.  
  
“If you mean that your scones are an improvement over what you dared to call _muffins_ , then yes, you are doing better,” sharply, Carnistir agreed. But his bite, no matter how harsh, held no true heat underneath, and Telperinquar smiled a hesitant smile in reply to the prickly compliment.  
  
After Telperinquar took out the overdone scones, Carnistir reached over to ruffle his hair in an overly vigorous gesture. The youth looking quite put out as he reached up to fix his braids, his scowl, for a moment, so much like Curufinwë's – like _Fëanáro's_ – that Makalaurë blinked, and stared, taken aback by the resemblence.  
  
“I do not know how Curvo does it,” Carnistir sighed, exaggerated befuddlement lining his voice, “but I _will_ have you at least marginally competent before we return to Tirion, mark my words on this.”  
  
“Do not be too distraught, child,” Makalaurë then saw fit to call into the kitchen. “The last time Carnë attempted to teach another, it was _your_ father, and he just narrowly avoided shoving Curvo in the oven after declaring him hopeless.”  
  
He watched, and Telperinquar's instinctively moving to defend his father was instead interrupted by his recognizing just who had spoken.  
  
“Uncle Laurë!” Telperinquar looked up from the burnt scones, and smiled brightly in greeting. He ran around the island in the center of the kitchen to embrace him in welcome, only to stop in his tracks and stare at the woman by his side. He blinked, and tilted his head when he realized that he had not come alone.  
  
“And . . . Aunt Nyarissë.” Telperinquar swallowed, his eyes filling with a dull sort of hurt before he clearly blinked it away. “You . . . you are here.”  
  
It was on the tip of Makalaurë's tongue to ask the child where else she would be, but he was stopped from doing so by Carnistir's fierce glare, unseen from behind Telperinquar. A moment later: _Lelyanis did not come_ , Carnistir spoke briefly into his mind, and Makalaurë sighed, not terribly surprised to hear that his brother's wife had not accompanied him north.  
  
Now almost some forty years ago, Curufinwë's marriage had taken them all by surprise. One moment he had been doing his all to ignore the curious, youthful advances of the sister of one of their father's apprentices, only for, days later, to calmly announce over breakfast that they had avowed themselves before Eru and were wed without ceremony – much as their own parents had, to the scandal and surprise of most of Tirion, both then and now.  
  
Makalaurë frowned at the memory, recalling how the careful planning and eager anticipation he knew for his own wedding – done the right way, through the proper channels – had turned into little more than an opportunity for his father and uncle to bicker and puff up their chests again, with Fëanáro taking every possible moment to compare the ceremony to the wedding of Nolofinwë's son, Turukáno, to Elenwë, which had occurred only weeks earlier. The day had turned even more sour when Melkor himself had turned up as a guest with the other Ainur, and for his silver-tongued words, his father's temper had only deteriorated all the more so. Fëanáro had been more pleased as he congratulated Curufinwë for his selfishness, with more joy to his expression than he had shown the entire day dedicated to his own marriage. The proof, once more, of just where he stood in his father's regard had hurt, even though he had willed it not to. Even now, merely the memory was a sharp sort of sting.  
  
Yet, only a year of marriage had revealed where his brother and good-sister were not as well matched as they first believed themselves to be, with their two stubborn and proud personalities clashing more than balancing, and Telperinquar had been a further surprise not long into their union.  
  
Carnistir now came over to tug on one of his nephew's braids and said, “Stir the chocolate sauce before the sugar crystallizes, Telpe. If it clumps, be assured that I will inform Grandfather that such is through fault of yours.”  
  
Just that easily, Telperinquar forgot his grief; his eyes widened, and he scurried off to do as he was told. Carnistir watched him before stepping forward to give him a quick embrace, caring not that he was getting the flour from his apron onto his robes. Makalaurë returned the affection, equally regardless about the mess, and Carnistir then repeated doing so with Nyarissë. But his motions were stiff, as if his thoughts were still far beyond them.  
  
“Tyelko's been in quite the mood since we arrived,” Carnistir rolled his eyes to inform them, letting out a deep exhale of air. “Grandfather finally had Curvo take him out into the wild for as long as it would take for him to reach some semblance of peace – for this house knows too many tempers under its roof as it is, and I was not far from putting a butter knife through the eye of the first one who scowled at the child again.”  
  
His gaze found Telperinquar, and his mouth hooked at the corners, not needing to speak for Makalaurë to further understand his thoughts. He looked to his side, and saw that Nyarissë's eyes had also hardened, she no doubt feeling for the youth, much the same as he.  
  
But Carnistir shook his head, and then said: “But you came,” as if surprised that they were there. “Not that I am not glad for two level heads to be added to this group – for Nelyo spends all of his efforts on Atar, and you can imagine just how bad it has been if _I_ am the one playing peacekeeper between our siblings.” Carnistir gave a harsh smile, brittle around the edges, and Makalaurë stared for a moment, wondering when his rather sharp humor had turned just so _acidic_.  
  
“Of course I came,” Makalaurë tried to summon a smile – a true smile – in order to say, “Where else would I be?”  
  
“I . . . I do not know,” Carnistir answered honestly. “And yet . . . I had _hoped_ . . .” He sighed, and ran a hand through his heavy black hair. He looked as if he was considering just how to put his thoughts into words, before taking in a deep breath, his eyes narrowing when he realized what he had inhaled. “Telpe,” he turned to say harshly, “the sauce is sticking, I can tell that much from here!”  
  
He rushed across the kitchen, hissing when Telperinquar bit his lip and asked, “Is it supposed to bubble like that?” Quickly, Carnistir moved the pot off of the heat, muttering under his breath all the while.  
  
For a moment, Makalaurë watched, amused, before his attention turned to the tidy rows of iced cakes, waiting unattended and welcoming right before him. He blinked, wondering if he could steal one – or twelve – without Carnistir's incredible sixth sense picking up on the theft.  
  
He was just reaching for one of the treats when Carnistir huffed out loud, turning to glance at Nyarissë and ask, “Nya, will you take that second batch out of the oven for me? Your eye I trust, at least.”  
  
Nyarissë could not refuse, understanding the honor bestowed upon her, and she raised a brow to glance at him as she passed by him to cross over to the oven. Carnistir watched her before turning back to him and narrowed his gaze pointedly. Upon seeing so, Makalaurë innocently held up his hands. “And you,” Carnistir warned, “leave those alone until they cool. And step back, while you're at it – I think that the sauce senses that you are in the kitchen, and is responding in kind.”  
  
Makalaurë dutifully stepped back two steps – and then three when Carnistir gestured for him to do so.  
  
He waited for his brother to turn away again, and when he was certain that his attention was taken, he took one step forward, and another -  
  
\- only to be interrupted by a familiar presence reaching out to brush his spirit in welcome. Instinctively, he let his fëa open to the familiar warmth of his brother's soul, and turned, smiling to see his older sibling standing behind him – tightly embracing him without waiting for him to fully turn. Makalaurë smiled into the affection, finding a peaceful contentment fill him for his brother's presence - much as he had ever known, ever since his earliest memories. In some ways, Maitimo was more beloved to his heart than even his parents, and he sighed, happy to see his brother - even if he wished the circumstances could have been different.  
  
“The Ambarussa came to tell Atar that you arrived, and I could not stay away,” Maitimo smiled to say. Makalaurë held onto his own smile, even as his joy faltered to see just how pale his brother was, with his normally immaculate braids mused from a distracted hand during their plaiting, and deep circles hanging beneath the normally brilliant silver-grey of his eyes. Yet, not only was that from lack of sleep, Makalaurë understood, seeing the molting of purple and brown flesh underneath his right eye, with healed scrapes at the top of his nose, showing where . . .  
  
“You look like you tripped through the Void just recently,” Makalaurë raised a dark brow to remark, a question coloring his words.  
  
Maitimo shrugged, his mouth making a thin line at his observation. He did not immediately speak to reveal where he had received the wound – which was such an oddity for his brother that Makalaurë at first stared, unsure if his prodding any further would be welcome. Such hesitation was an unfamiliar sensation, and he swallowed against the unpleasant aftertaste it left.  
  
Nonetheless: “Though that looks a trite more physical,” Makalaurë tried to jape, gesturing at the wound. His words came out the slightest bit strained.  
  
At last, Maitimo winced and let out a breath in defeat. “I . . . I started it, I must confess,” he finally said, reaching up to gingerly probe the still healing flesh around his eye. “When we prepared to leave Tirion . . . after Manwë pronounced his judgment . . . I told Findekáno that I too was going to Formenos, and he . . . he said . . .” but Maitimo frowned, and ground his teeth against his words before swallowing them away entirely. “Anyway, I did not even realize that I had struck him until he was holding his jaw, and before I could apologize, Finno returned me this.” He pointed at his face with a rueful expression.  
  
“He was trying to claim the wound for his father – for Nolofinwë was the one threatened, and yet Finwë decided to follow our father north. He does not understand how I can stand by our father's side, after everything . . . and I could not explain to him why I could not do anything differently,” Maitimo continued, his jaw then hardening. “In a strange way, our father's fears were proven true, for Nolofinwë _does_ sit Finwë's throne in Tirion now, and every word Melkor whispered has since come to be. Which . . .” Maitimo sighed and ran a hand through his hair, musing his disheveled braids even further.  
  
“Which leaves me to my own fears . . . does it not seem odd to you? All of this? Ever since . . .” Makalaurë swallowed, his lowered voice then not seemingly like enough to give voice to the fear he had long held in his heart. For the fragile peace within their family to unravel so easily, and both Fëanáro and Nolofinwë to give into doubts and uncertainties that they had successfully – somewhat, anyway - fought against for centuries . . . all coinciding perfectly with _his_ release and whispers . . .  
  
“Yes,” Maitimo agreed without hesitation, “and it is my hope that we can convince Atar of that while we are here . . . for I cannot believe him to be permanently beyond our reach. I _cannot_. I tried to explain that to Findekáno, but he could only repeat how my accompanying him north looked to be _condon_ _ing_ his behavior, and agreeing with it, even. He could not understand, and I tired of trying to explain myself to him.”  
  
Maitimo frowned, and the silver in his eyes darkened for a shade of steel. The expression was, for a moment, foreign to him, causing Makalaurë to stare, caring for the look but little.  
  
But then Maitimo blinked, and when he smiled, all was familiar and good upon his face once more. “Yet, you . . . why are you here? You know what the north does to Nya, and after . . .” Maitimo sighed, unable to pick one reason from the several he had to refuse his father his loyalty after so long being denied the same in kind.  
  
“I could not _not_ come,” was all he could reply, his voice thin and drawn from his mouth. “I could not be the only son of Fëanáro who stood aside.” Just the idea of doing so had been a crippling thing to him - the part of his spirit that was still as a child longing for his father's approval then greater than the all of his being. Such a fervor had surprised him, and for that longing, for that _need_ , he someday feared . . .  
  
But no. He inhaled, and let his breath out slow.  
  
“Amil stepped aside of his path,” Maitimo pointed out. His voice did not tremble for his saying so, even as his eyes took on that same shade of glinting steel. “Lelyanis, as well.”  
  
“Lelyanis has too much of her pride, leaving her son here,” Makalaurë huffed out a breath, frustrated with the stubborn heart of his good-sister. “Mistake or not, she _did_ wed our brother, and if she wishes to forsake her vows, then so be it, but to leave her child _here_ , in this atmosphere . . . Telperinquar already has a soft heart, and he is easily hurt when he thinks to have disappointed those he esteems; if _I_ know this, then so should she. I cannot understand how . . .”  
  
His jaw hardened, feeling an anger, poignant and deep, touch the underside of his heart. He looked away from his brother, searching out where Nyarissë had moved from the scones to stand at Telperinquar's shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his back as she tried to better explain the principles that Carnistir was quickly firing out. There was a soft light in her eyes, and peace was clearly seen on her every feature . . . though perhaps only Makalaurë would know that such a look was shaped from her own unfulfilled longing, even more so than any sort of familial love.  
  
“Perhaps it is good for him that she is here,” Maitimo finally said. “It is refreshing to hear voices speak with goodness in this house. These last days . . .” but he sighed, and did not say what Makalaurë could already more than infer for himself.  
  
“His presence is good for her, as well,” Makalaurë had to take a long moment to find his words, first unable as he was to voice the deepest of his thoughts. “We . . . we were speaking of children – all the more seriously as of late, and now . . .” he found that he could not further form his words around the burning in his throat. When he looked, his brother's expression was lined with a deep sadness when he understood what he tried to say.  
  
“She has ever known such a joy for teaching the young ones, and long has she wished . . . but I . . . I asked that we wait - for decades, now. I wanted to wait for the eddies in my family to sooth . . . to calm, and yet, now . . . I have waited too long, I fear.” He clenched his fingers, and made fists of his hands, feeling a burning sort of pain deep in his chest, as if drawn by knife-point, so much so that he was surprised that he did not bleed from a physical wound of flesh.  
  
“You speak as if this is the end,” Maitimo tried to protest his fears. There was a forced levity to his voice, a pale brightness to his eyes, and in reply he . . .  
  
. . . it was on the tip of his tongue to ask _was it not?_ But he did not have time to speak before a sharp, burning scent assaulted his nose. He blinked, feeling his eyes water for the telling fumes of smoke on the air, and he turned in time to hear Carnistir shout, “Telpe, the towel!”  
  
Makalaurë whipped around, his reflexes faster than normal for his already being so on edge, and Maitimo did the same. Easily, they peered through the smoke to see where the towel Telperinquar had used to handle the hot pan in the oven had been left on one of the burners. The towel had rather impressively caught flame - a flame that now spread to the great book of recipes just next to the stove on the counter.  
  
“Aiya!” Nyarissë exclaimed as she got the burning towel over to the sink, and moved to douse the flames under the water spout, even as Carnistir moved to blot out the burning book with a wet rag, cursing under his breath all the while. But they were not quick enough. Overhead, the emergency measures for such kitchen mishaps – which Makalaurë did not care to admit were installed on account of one of _his_ more . . . _flamboyant_ incidents as a youth – came on, and let loose a steady mist of water from the ceiling in order to put out the flames below.  
  
The smoke cleared, and the orange tongues of fire were doused, but everyone and everything in the kitchen was then soaked. Makalaurë looked from the ruined pastries on the counter, to the puddles on the floor, to Carnistir glaring through the now wet strands of his hair, falling in a heavy curtain before his eyes, at Telperinquar, whose cheeks were flushed a bright red in mortification. An equally soaked Nyarissë moved forward to put a hand on the youth's shoulder, but was kept from saying anything by a rumbling voice from the opposite entrance to the kitchen.  
  
“What happened?” The inquiry was innocent enough, but the furious lashing of Fëanáro's fëa was as the ground moving over a turbulent flow of molten earth beneath. Makalaurë suddenly felt too warm in his place, the great flame of his father's spirit then more oppressive than even the oven's dry heat, and he stood up straighter in a centuries old reaction to his sire's anger. Much as Maitimo had been disheveled and out of sorts in his appearance, his father was the opposite, with not a hair of his raven-black mane out of place, and his robes of rich red brocade falling without a wrinkle about the great strength of his body, which was now coiled with the dangerous grace of some stalking jungle cat. The unforgivably beautiful sculpt of his features was all the more striking in his anger, and a tellingly virile light seemingly dancing from his skin to halo about his body in an unconscious show of fey might for all of them to see.  
  
His expression was deceivingly genial, and not a soul in the room was fooled by it. Unconsciously, Makalaurë took in a deep breath, and held it.  
  
“There was an accident involving a towel and a still running burner,” Nyarissë was the one to find her voice in order to answer. She did not mention Telperinquar, and stood just slightly in front of the boy, as if to shield him from the turbulent presence lashing at all of their senses.  
  
Fëanáro raised a dark brow, and glanced to Carnistir – Carnistir, who looked, concerned, at Telperinquar, and did not look away quickly enough to keep their father from inferring all the rest.  
  
“This is not the time, or place, for such foolery,” Fëanáro growled with a deceptive calm, his voice as low as the thundering bellows of some great forge. “If we are all to be confined underneath this roof, I will not have myself further subjected to your ineptitudes. What's more so, if you wish to claim to my blood, I expect you to conduct yourself with the grace and becoming that your very name implies, do you understand me?”  
  
Telperinquar, whose face had gone ashen from the moment his grandfather locked eyes with him, held himself very, very still in reply. His small hands made fists at his side, even as he nodded, his large eyes gleaming as he furiously kept his tears from falling. “Yes, sir,” the child found his voice. “Of course, sir.” And yet, as he bowed his head to say so, Makalaurë then heard a low sort of growl – not from his sire, he understood with astonishment, but from:  
  
“Forgive me my need to speak, _arpenia_ , but the burning towel was an accident, and the child does not deserve to be berated so.”  
  
Makalaurë blinked, startled to hear Nyarissë's voice say so. He stared, shocked – just as every other soul in the room was shocked – when the willowy Teler further put herself in front of the boy, and held herself poised and determined with her utterance. Her chin was held up proudly, and her eyes were filled with the ocean rolling in anger. Makalaurë could feel the turbulent cast of her spirit – not a match for his father's in potency, but still a force to be reckoned with, nonetheless. He sucked in a sharp breath.  
  
“Excuse me?” Fëanáro's voice was deep with a deceptive calm.  
  
“I meant as I said,” Nyarissë tilted her nose up to say, refusing to be cowed. “Tempers are high right now - for everyone in this house; but that is not excuse enough to take your anger out on the child.”  
  
“Nya,” at last, Makalaurë found the will to use his voice. He took a step forward, determined to cut in, only to be rewarded with two furious gazes being turned on him – both his father's and his wife's.  
  
“No, Kanafinwë,” Fëanáro's interrupted as a lash striking, “let your Linda speak, for she clearly has much to say.”  
  
“And you have much that you need to hear!” Nyarissë snapped to say, her teeth showing for Fëanáro's casual challenge. A Singer's power trembled in her voice in an unconscious show of strength, and more than one of his brothers had to blink at the force of it.“You are quick to claim such a wound from your half-brother - from your father, even - and yet you do not look about you to see that you inflict an equal such wound on those who love you the most, and stand ever faithful by your side.”  
  
The kitchen was awfully, terribly silent following her declaration. Carnistir stared, Telperinquar gaped, and Maitimo held himself as if in readiness for battle, his eyes a shade of steel as he stared at his father without blinking, as if waiting for the exact moment in which he would be needed to intervene.  
  
For Nyarissë was not yet finished: “Everyone in your family hessitates to speak frankly to you, for they are terrified of your disapproval. For, more so than anything else, they fear failing you - which is why your sons have accompanied you in your exile, rather than keeping to their own homes and letting you serve out your rightful penance for _your_ misdeeds. Yet you do not see their sacrifice, their love, instead you see only what they lack when held up before the mirror of your skills and your glory. But I am not afraid; I will not cower to say that while you are unparalleled in the works of your hands, your heart has much it can learn from those who stand faithful at your side - if only you would humble yourself to take in that lesson.”  
  
Makalaurë closed his eyes, knowing what she was trying to say – and even agreeing with her, in his own way - but also knowing that . . .  
  
He did not have to wait but for half a heartbeat for Fëanáro to step forward menacingly with his reply. “How dare you?” his eyes swam with a white-hot fire as he thundered. For a moment, Makalaurë found it hard to breathe underneath the oppressive weight of his sire's temper. “You speak when you know _nothing_. My sons are everything to me, and for you to infer -”  
  
“ - then tell them!” Nyarissë was not impressed by his saying so. “If such is true, then I am glad. Yet, as I see it, you bear more love in your heart for the works of your hands than the seven who stand faithful before you now, and long has such sickened me to witness.”  
  
The silence that followed her declaration was terrible and pointed, for each there knew better than to even _reference_ the Silmarils, lest they draw their father's suspicion and growing paranoia for those who schemed to take the jewels from him. It was a dangerous topic, a _loaded_ topic, and he -  
  
\- he did not think before stepping forward, even as his father stepped forward, standing firm in front of his wife and baring his teeth in a gesture that was fey and primal – an instinct from across the Sea, one that the grace of Valinor had not been able to completely weed out and tidily cultivate from the souls of his people. He did not speak; he could not even bring himself to reason with words, overpowering as his need to protect his mate then was - even from the being who was the founding spark of his own soul.  
  
But his doing so bore fruit in an unexpected way. Fëanáro blinked, broken from the haze of his anger by his surprise that his son would feel the need to move so in front of him. He frowned, as if disturbed by the realization, and he took one step back, and then another. Even so, a dark look remained in his eyes; yet, before he could open his mouth to speak, a voice cut into the terse atmosphere like a whip-crack.  
  
_“Curvo.”_  
  
It was odd – so odd – to hear the name they most often called their younger brother by turned on their father. But, Makalaurë thought, clearing his mind from his own fey haze, there was only one being in Arda who would address his father so, and he turned to see -  
  
“Have you come to scold me, Atar?” Fëanáro did not even turn to look on Finwë's arrival, still staring at Nyarissë as he was. “I am afraid that you lost that right long ago.”  
  
Makalaurë turned, and yet, the familiar joy he expected for seeing his grandfather then was a slow, hesitant thing in his heart. Finwë looked weary was his first, surprised thought upon seeing him fully. Far from the powerful, Unbegotten Lord and wise leader of many - ever like a mountain, standing before a storm in terms of intangible beauty and strength, Finwë now looked as if he bore the weight of his every year upon his shoulders. The grey of his eyes was pale, and the line of his mouth was sad.  
  
“I am here, am I not, my son?” his voice was low and soothing, pitched more to appeal to a frightened animal, wounded in the wild, than his firstborn son, fully grown in both body and reason.  
  
“You do so only because to do otherwise would make it seem as if you are bowing your head before the Valar,” Fëanáro all but ground his teeth to say. He turned towards his father, but did not look him in the eye, even still. Perhaps, Makalaurë thought, it was because he could not. “You do not . . .” his words were stiff to say, as if he had to ground out every syllable so as to keep them from breaking. “You do not truly . . .”  
  
But Fëanáro gathered himself, and his look was cold as he once against cast himself in stone. This time, he stared his father in the eye. “Even now, you would rather be with _them_. I have been a burden, an inconvenient reminder ever since the day _she_ died; but I am old enough to bear the truth now, you need no longer pretend for my sake.”  
  
“How such a gross misbelief still plagues you, after all of these years, I know not,” Finwë sighed to say. He did not flinch at the words, having heard them many times before, and yet, he then looked to be even wearier before Makalaurë's eyes. “And yet, if your believing such stems from my failings as a father, then I know more grief than you will ever know.”  
  
Slowly, carefully, Finwë reached over to put a hand on his son's shoulder, and Fëanáro stiffened under the touch. He let out a breath, a deep breath, and for a moment his face twisted, as if he was in pain. His father seemed smaller then, Makalaurë thought, younger, and he watched as Fëanáro sighed and submitted to the touch for only a moment before shrugging out from underneath Finwë's hand.  
  
When he looked back out over the ruin of the kitchen, there was neither anger nor humor upon his face. Fëanáro's eyes were blank, and his mouth was pressed into a neutral line.  
  
“See that this mess is tended to,” was all he said further on the matter, and he then turned to stalk back to his workroom. The heavy weight on the air left as soon as he did, and Makalaurë took in a surreptitious breath, then able to fill his lungs fully once more. He sighed, feeling his own spirit stretch out now that the unforgiving cast of his father's soul was gone - able as they all were able to truly breathe then.  
  
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Nyarissë was the first one to speak. “Come, Telperinquar,” she gently pushed the still shell-shocked youth. “Let's get you cleaned up.”  
  
“But, the mess,” he protested, “it is through fault of mine -”  
  
“ - and there are more than enough hands here to see to it,” she said, shaking her head when she noticed that the boy's sleeve was burned through his attempts to put out the small fire. “They do not mind.”  
  
She simply glanced at the rest of them, and Carnistir merely sighed before heading to the small closet on the side of the kitchen to fetch a bucket and rags, resigned to his fate.  
  
“Go on Telpe,” Carnistir rumbled, even so. “I'm sure I'll think of a way for you to make this up to me.”  
  
In reply, the barest edge of a smile touched the corner of Nyarissë's mouth before she led her nephew away. Makalaurë watched them depart before turning to where his grandfather still stood. Finwë's eyes had followed his son's retreat, even when he could see him no more, and now he sighed, the great line of his shoulders slumping before he gathered himself and stood tall before them once more. When he turned to look down at the soggy racks of now cooled desserts, he gave a half-smile, and his voice was once more the familiar, warm baritone they had long known when he said, “Your offerings look wonderful, Carnë.”  
  
“They _l_ _ooked_ wonderful, I think you mean,” Carnistir snorted ruefully, reaching into the sink to put the ruined remains of the towel into the waste bin.  
  
By his side, Maitimo seemed to barely even noticed the exchange. “Should I . . . does he need . . .” he started hesitantly, addressing Finwë, even as he stared after where his father had disappeared.  
  
“No,” Finwë shook his head. “You need not subject yourself to his temper this time. I shall, for, in a way, this is my doing, and I would yet see this harm set to rights, if it is in my power.”  
  
Finwë then smiled one last time at Carnistir, before coming over to place a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder, and he felt the heaviness of his touch before it faded away. He did the same with Maitimo, and then he was gone.  
  
“You may as well grab a bucket,” Carnistir finally rumbled after their grandfather left. “I am not cleaning this by myself.”  
  
“No, of course not,” Makalaurë shook his head to clear his thoughts, and Maitimo was broken from his own haze by Carnistir throwing the mop to him - forcing him to catch it if he wanted to avoid the pole bumping his head.  
  
They finished cleaning the kitchen in silence, and Makalaurë then went to clean himself up and change from his traveling clothes. He felt marginally better after doing so, no matter the somber sort of mood that still clung to him - fitting with the flushing of the half-light from beyond the house, turning the sky purple as the scarlet-tinged light of the evening flooded through the tall windows to illuminate the halls within.  
  
After seeking out his wife through their bond, Makalaurë found her, and walked into one of the sitting rooms that held a wonderful view of the strange play of the evening light over the wild ways of the gardens just beyond the house. For a moment, he felt a pang, frowning to recall how this had been his mother's favorite room when they visited during the summer months. Various of her sculptures filled the space, and it still smelled sweetly of the hardy forest roses she used to harvest to brighten the shadows.  
  
If he looked, he could remember himself playing his lyre for his family for the first time in that room. He could still remember the pride in Fëanáro's eyes when, only days later, he was gifted with a harp of his father's own making - the construction of the instrument attacked with the same attention to detail and pursuit of perfection that his father saw to all of his crafts with. If he tried, he could still remember his father's hand upon his shoulder, even if his memory of Fëanáro's smile was becoming a hesitant and hazy thing over the years.  
  
Tyelkormo had been born in Formenos, he remembered next – and most likely even begotten, though Makalaurë did not think overly long on that – and he was nearly certain that that was where his younger brother's affinity with the dark and wild things of Aman stemmed from. Even now he could remember his brother racing through the halls, covered in mud as Carnistir inevitably cried out for some foul play he had just suffered from his sibling's hands a moment before. Makalaurë should know – as he was tasked with cleaning up his brothers more than he then thought was fair. Well, not Carnistir, at least – for their father had been the only one who could get him through an entire bath without biting. Not even Nerdanel had been afforded that honor.  
  
He snorted at the memory, even though the fond recollections brought with them a sharp jab of pain - unable as he was to imagine his father with patience and fondness enough to brush mud and snarls from _anyone's_ hair now. Such had been one of his reasons for hesitating for a child of his own, wanting that child to have the same memories that he held dear in his youngest days. And yet, now . . .  
  
Makalaurë blinked as he looked about the room, lost in his memories and wondering if the house would ever be a haven for his family – his _entire_ family – in happiness again. He liked to think that, maybe, someday . . .  
  
But the mere idea felt as a wish, a fanciable thing, as intangible and out of reach as the stars themselves, and he could not help but _know_ . . . There was a shadow on Formenos, and never again would it be occupied in peace. If it did, it would be in some far off, distant age of the world – one that he could not see for the great weight of _time_ placed upon such a vision.  
  
Makalaurë let out a breath, and walked through the ghost of his childhood self to sit down next to his wife and nephew on one of the long, low-slung couches. Telperinquar was sleeping, no doubt lulled by the song that Nyarissë still held on the back of her tongue, humming softly into the dark. While the youth was clean and dry, she still wore her traveling robes, and her hair had dried in loose curls for her failing to tend to it in favor of seeing to the boy. She looked, Makalaurë thought, quite beautiful, even so.  
  
Telperinquar looked even younger then, he thought next – for in sleep he was unable to hold himself up tall and pretend to be wise beyond his years. Makalaurë frowned, recalling his own happy childhood, his heart then heavy to know that his brother-son had but few such memories to call his own.  
  
“He pretends to be so old, but his spirit is even younger than his body, and he is weary,” Nyarissë whispered on the wings of his thoughts. She ran a gentle hand through the youth's raven locks, and Telperinquar sighed in his sleep, content. Makalaurë felt his heart clench as he wondered if his unconscious mind thought that his own mother was near, and he frowned for his thoughts – forcing them to brighten as he took in the peace and ease she knew in that moment, knowing for a certainty then . . .  
  
“You would have made an excellent mother,” he whispered. He knew that his eyes shone in the half-light, but he could not keep the surge of emotion he felt from his voice or expression if he tried.  
  
When Nyarissë looked at him, her voice was wry, no matter that her eyes were equally shining. “Will I not still?” she could not help but tease. “Twelve years is not so long a time to wait, and, perhaps, when we return to Alqualondë . . .”  
  
He felt his heart struggle to lighten, and when he smiled, the gesture was only a small part forced. “Yes . . . perhaps,” he echoed. “When we return home.”  
  
The smile she gave in reply to his words was beautiful. He stared at her, finding his heart quite taken all over again. Without thinking, he found himself leaning towards her, but stilled in his motion when he heard the sound of movement at the doorway. He looked up to see Carnistir coming towards them, still wearing his soiled apron, while his hair made truly interesting shapes from where the heavy mass had been left to dry in tangles.  
  
But he held a platter in his hands, and his very look was triumphant as he flopped down on the couch next to them.  
  
“I made lemon cakes,” he proclaimed while still keeping his voice low so as to not wake Telperinquar. “I remembered that you do not care much for chocolate, Nya, and thought of you.”  
  
At that, she could not help herself – she laughed a bright, happy laugh, such as that lonely room in Formenos had not heard in far too long. Makalaurë found his heart turn for the sound, and even Carnistir smiled a true smile to hear her joy. He placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder, and felt as Telperinquar's sleep deepened with a true peace.  
  
“You are a dear, Carnë,” Nyarissë leaned over Makalaurë to kiss her good-brother's cheek, her smile only widening to see his expressive face blush a dark red in reply. “Never let anyone convince you otherwise.”  
  
She returned to her place, and he felt her spirit flush against his own.  
  
“We will be okay, Káno,” Nyarissë assured him, confidence in her voice as she leaned over to press her mouth to his in a short, sweet kiss. Finding peace fill his heart, he sighed against her smile, her _promise_ , before kissing her back and trying to make her faith his own.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Makalaurë/Kanafinwë/Káno** : Maglor  
>  **Maitimo/Nelyo** : Maedhros  
>  **Carnistir/Carnë** : Caranthir  
>  **Telperinquar** : Celebrimbor  
>  **Telufinwë** : Amrod  
>  **Pityafinwë** : Amras  
>  **Curufinwë/Curvo** : Curufin  
>  **Tyelkormo** : Celegorm  
>  **Findekáno** : Fingon  
>  **Turukáno** : Turgon  
>  **Nolofinwë** : Fingolfin  
>  **Arpenia** : Telerin for 'lord'


	86. "something without a name"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Míriel/Finwë/Indis & Ensemble || Prompt: _Single, Double, Triple, Quadruple, Many, Regard, Dislike, Tolerate, Respect, Adore_
> 
> On another site, there is a drabble race this week as part of a longer competition, and I wanted to dive in and see how many of the prompts I could fill in that time - so this is my first offering of a few, I hope. As I have been out of town for a few weeks, it also seemed the perfect way to get my muse back in gear and purge a few lingering ideas all at once - even if it _is_ odd writing a hundred word snippets after some of the beasts in this collection. Ah, well, in the beginning that's what this thread was _supposed_ to be, and now here we are . . . ;)

**Single**  
  
The room was all empty space and absence; now much too large for one person to inhabit alone. His footsteps echoed; his breath was lost to the air between ceiling and window and floor. The too-large bed swallowed him without her, and where he once had to endure a mere wanting in his heart – in _their_ hearts – he was now hollowed out and empty, left alone as _one_ -  
  
\- the sound of a baby crying filled the empty room, reminding Finwë that he was not solely one; not quite. Sighing, he rose, once more determined to be father enough for two.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Double**  
  
Fëanáro knew that families were thus: Father. Mother. Child. He had his father, and he was the child, but, unlike other children, he had no mother.  
  
Fëanáro knew, as with a whisper, that his soul was too big and too bright, ever hot against the underside of his flesh. He burned, and with that heat . . .  
  
“Your mother . . .” Finwë once tried to explain, but Fëanáro already knew.  
  
“ . . . is here,” he touched his chest, knowing that, somehow, he had taken too much of his mother's light, and never could she shine again. And so they remained: Father, Mother, Child, in their own way.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Triple**  
  
Sometimes, Indis remembered a land of endless twilight; she remembered laying in the grass between Míriel and Finwë and picking out patterns in the night sky. “That one looks like a deer, methinks,” Míriel pointed, and Indis peered to find -  
  
\- but she blinked, and the stars were then underlit by Telperion's silver blush. She and Finwë were gazing at the heavens alone. In Aman the stars were not quite as bright.  
  
“I too remember,” even so, Finwë whispered, and she laced her fingers through his own, sharing both his grief and his love as the firmament danced above their heads.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Quadruple**  
  
The first time he kissed her was an accident born by grief and loneliness.  
  
The second time, she tasted of Vanyarin wine, and he faltered when he realized how quickly he too was intoxicated.  
  
The third time, the Treelight in her hair made her look like Míriel, and his shame was then greater than his want, pushing him away.  
  
The fourth time, Indis refused to let him go. “I am not Míriel,” she nonetheless warned, her pupils wide and her mouth bruised. Her fingertips pressed into the skin of his neck.  
  
“I know,” Finwë finally whispered, and kissed her again.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Many**  
  
Her brother was the first to ask: “Are the whispers true? Do you dishonor the Noldor queen's memory by coveting what is not yours?”  
  
“He was always mine, just as she too was!” something within her broke. “They are irrevocably wound in my heart, and now . . . Finwë seeks permission to wed me, but how can the Valar validate what the _One_ placed in my heart? How . . . ”  
  
Ingwë frowned, troubled, but not surprised. “Yet, it is _for_ your heart I fear. You choose a hard road, one not many will understand.”  
  
“I care not,” Indis vowed. “Finwë does; that's all that matters.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Regard**  
  
The first thing Indis noticed was how - for all that Fëanáro was Finwë's son in look - familiar the fire burning within him was. An ache filled her, and she instinctively wanted to reach for him: the child who was so much _Míriel_ and so much _Finwë_ that she could not help but love him as well.  
  
But the boy only stared with eyes that were too young to be so cruel, and his teeth flashed when he proclaimed: “You will never be my mother.” Fëanáro may have been fire, but he regarded her with cool disdain from that day on.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Respect**  
  
In his own way, Finwë respected the Valar; they called his people West, and gave them shelter from the Shadow; but they too were children of Eru. They may have been superior in wisdom and power, but he prayed only to Eru; to the Father alone he gave his worship and devotion.  
  
Even so, he bowed his head as the first pangs of birth took Indis, pleading for Námo - or any that would listen - to keep her safe where Míriel had been consumed. Losing one piece of his heart had crippled him; twice he was certain would destroy him completely.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Dislike**  
  
With Findis' birth, Fëanáro had known an abstract curiosity for his (half) sister in flesh, if not in heart. Yet, with Nolofinwë . . .  
  
He was surprised when Indis whispered that Nolofinwë resembled _him_ as a babe, and was further startled when Finwë agreed. He stared from Father to Mother to Child; a warm light surrounding them, rather than _consuming_. A vicious sort of pain (yearning) bloomed within him, insisting that that moment (family) should have been his. But it was not.  
  
Fëanáro felt a seed of dislike (envy) pierce his heart, and left it there to thrive with roots grown deep.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Tolerate**  
  
There were times when Nolofinwë basked in the heat of his (half) brother's soul, recognizing that flame as one he too bore. Yet, that fire now blazed as their father tried to sooth Fëanáro's temper, no matter that _Nolofinwë_ had been wronged. He watched, his tolerance waning as his own flame rose, and then:  
  
“He should not blame me for having a mother while he does not,” Nolofinwë finally gave voice to that flame, instantly satisfied (guilty) for the rage (pain) that bloomed in Fëanáro's eyes.  
  
Later, he was the one scolded and sent to bed, and he did not know exactly why he wept.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Adore**  
  
Sometimes, in quiet moments, Indis wondered if her marriage was a mistake. Her family brought her joy, but her contentment came with a price, and it was paid, first and foremost, by her children.  
  
“Amil, why are you so sad?” her youngest child had a way of peering beyond flesh, into souls, no matter his tender years. “You should not be, for we are happy.”  
  
“I worry for all of my children,” Indis whispered, knowing that he would understand.  
  
“ . . . but he is happy too,” after a heartbeat, Arafinwë stated with confidence. “His heart adores us; he just doesn't know it yet.”


	87. "with those who favour fire"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ensemble Finwions || Prompt: _White, Black, Grey, Blue, Red, Delicate, Soft, Hard, Tough, Unbreakable, Detention, Homework, Test, Grade, Essay_
> 
> Here we are with more drabbles. Though if something in particular catches your eye, please let me know - that always influences the muse with future pieces to come. ;)

**White**  
  
Her daughter returned home with green marring the white of her dress in liberal streaks of verdant moss and pungent river-muck. There were brambles and leaves caught in her long black braids, and her face was smeared with mud; most disturbingly, her knuckles were scraped with what looked suspiciously like blood.  
  
Anairë collected herself. Carefully, she asked, “Irissë, what did you do today?”  
  
In answer, the girl gave a slow, hesitant smile. After a moment's debate, the look fixed firmly upon her face, brightening her dove-grey eyes. “I made a friend,” Irissë whispered, and tightened her small fingers into fists.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Black**  
  
When her son returned home – with green staining his tunic and his right pant-leg torn to reveal a scraped knee beneath - Nerdanel was not terribly surprised. However, the bruised flesh around his eye – molted with shades of purple and green, and already darkening to black – made her mother's heart quicken.  
  
“Tyelko?” she forced her voice to calm. “What happened?”  
  
Tyelkormo would not reply, and it was left to Carnistir to laugh and answer: “He made a _friend_ today.”  
  
Nerdanel blinked, but Tyelkormo did not deny Carnistir's claim. Instead, he curled his hands into fists, and barely, just barely, his bloodied lips smiled.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Grey**  
  
As it often was when Fëanáro bothered to attend Finwë's Court, Nolofinwë's temper was dark for how easily his hard work for the crown was disrupted by his half-brother - with the courtiers ever being eager to favor their _true queen's_ son in all things. That evening, he sought out Arafinwë's house, hoping to recover his serenity there.  
  
He was holding his only niece – staring at the babe's uncannily bright grey-blue eyes - when Arafinwë wryly noted, “Has it ever occured to you that you clash so severely because you are so alike?”  
  
Nolofinwë merely held Artanis tighter, pretending that he did not hear.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Blue**  
  
She found her secondborn sitting on the beach, not terribly surprised that he had sought out peace and quiet away from Olwë's palace, and the bustle of Finwë's family gathered therein.  
  
Nerdanel lowered herself to the sand, and stared out at the waves. Their blue crests glittered underneath Laurelin's waning light, and shades of pearl and gold danced in the sea-foam. The ocean-spray smelled of salt, cleansing and fresh.  
  
“What are you doing, my son?” softly, she asked.  
  
Makalaurë smiled, seemingly older than his years when he answered, “I am trying to write a song that sounds like the Sea.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Red**  
  
In his dreams, Maitimo watched a strange, scarlet light sink towards the horizon. His hair was tangled in the wind, and his skin wept blood from too many wounds to count. Disturbingly, he felt for his hand, unable to feel his fingers as he rose, as if _flying_ -  
  
\- but he awakened, drawn from his sleep by his brother's concern. “Nelyo? I heard you cry out.” He followed Makalaurë's voice, struggled to blink away the red.  
  
“'twas nothing,” he found his voice. “A nightmare.”  
  
Maitimo closed his eyes, and clenched the fingers of his right hand together as if to keep them there.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Unbreakable**  
  
He was surprised to find his nephew waiting in his workshop.  
  
“Nelyafinwë is not here,” Fëanáro stated imperiously as he passed the youth. Findekáno blinked at him with large eyes – his father's eyes (his own eyes) - and visibly gathered his courage.  
  
“The clasp is broken,” Findekáno held out a necklace, one he recognized as his own work. “I thought your wares to be unbreakable, and yet . . .”  
  
He started at the cheek in the boy's voice, for a moment traitorously amused. “It wasn't designed with _carelessness_ in mind,” he rebuked.  
  
But Findekáno only smiled, and settled in to watch him mend the piece.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Delicate**  
  
The recreated glass was a true work of art; delicate in colour and beautiful in form. The original piece, a wedding present from King Ingwë, had been irrevocably lost to the children roughhousing indoors – though Turukáno had later admitted that Tyelkormo had pushed the vase on purpose.  
  
Nerdanel, Anairë thought, knew the truth also, for she stood with her face shaped in apology, and her green eyes were weary.  
  
“My son shamed me,” she said simply. “And I would mend what he ruined.”  
  
Gently, Anairë smiled. “It is more beautiful than it was before,” she assured, and meant her words true.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Soft**  
  
Few were the times her calm deserted her, for it was proper to present herself with a poise and grace befitting one of the Noldor's elite. Her people claimed to have risen above their fey emotions, and had left their more faerie cousins behind across the Sea; but none of that mattered when she saw Fëanáro sneer at her husband, his white-hot eyes ever _burning_.  
  
Anairë frowned, moved from her soft serenity, before Nolofinwë's hand touched her wrist. It was enough, then, for her husband to know of the edge she carried inside of her. It was for no other to see.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Hard**  
  
When Fëanáro named his fifth son, no one was more surprised than Maitimo.  
  
_. . . Curufinwë . . . Curufinwë . . . Curufinwë . . ._  
  
Numb, he moved through the rest of the naming ceremony in a daze. For his father to give his _own_ name - a name that should have been bestowed upon his eldest – to another . . .  
  
Maitimo swallowed, hating that his eyes burned.  
  
“Curufinwë is an heir's name; and Atar now has a firstborn to his genius - even Aulë said so,” he spoke in a hard voice when Makalaurë found him. “I am not slighted, truly.”  
  
But Makalaurë knew his lie, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
  **Essay**  
  
One of the palace guards was in love with Irissë.  
  
Tyelkormo had proof of it dangling from his fingertips. He used his greater height to hold the parchment from her reach, skimming the poem - “ _Melkor's bowels_ , he's as long-winded as Káno, this is more an _essay_ than a love-letter” - and chortling about the _lips as red as roses_ and _skin as white as snow._  
  
“Does he know you're _really_ a foul tempered shrew?” Tyelkormo lamented when she stepped on his foot and elbowed his stomach to reach the letter, refusing to look at her mouth and admit that -  
  
\- but no. _No._  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Detention**  
  
“You've clearly never worked a day in your life; put some heart into it, Turvo.”  
  
Turukáno blinked, seething – he never had cause to scrub the forge-floors as punishment, and thus, had little practice in the matter.  
  
He realized he said that last part aloud when Carnistir's rag splattered between his shoulder-blades; drawing Irissë's glare and Tyelkormo's chortle. But his reply was interrupted by Maitimo and Findekáno too kneeling down next to the bucket.  
  
“You weren't the one to start the food-fight,” Findekáno explained sheepishly. “Thus, we couldn't leave you alone.”  
  
Turukáno threw his own rag, inordinately pleased when it struck Findekáno's face.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Test**  
  
Though he would deny it, Curufinwë was nervous.  
  
His palms sweated and his hands shook, turning his braids crooked. He started over, knowing that if he failed so simple a design, the Vala would struggle to see his skill in anything greater.  
  
. . . for Aulë's word to come meant everything to him. Holding the rank of Master-smith this young in life was a feat only his father had achieved, and he was his father's son in all things – from name to look to skill - and he would fail that resemblance not. For, if he did . . . what then was left of him?  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Grade**  
  
Maitimo could ever feel his father's anxiety in the presence of his grandfather. There was always that moment of unease – his certainty of being judged, and his not knowing if he was found wanting (such was the reason he always strove for _more_ , needing to prove himself worthy of the excess of spirit he bore) – before he melted into the affection Finwë gave him as if he were one drowning.  
  
Though familial love was unconditional, there were moments when he too wondered if his grandfather loved him as much as he did Nolofinwë's sons - before blinking and pushing those thoughts away.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Homework**  
  
He lingered long after his father left, for he was the slowest of his brothers to learn to art of the sword, and he was determined to prove himself more than the disappointment and frustration in Fëanáro's eyes - as he ever was.  
  
Finally, Makalaurë sighed, ill at ease with the steel in his hand.  
  
“You are more graceful than the rest of us,” Maitimo pointed out. “Why does this trouble you so?”  
  
“Learning to wield a blade is to have the intention to use it,” Makalaurë finally whispered, a strange _knowing_ gripping his heart. “That thought troubles me, and slows my hand.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Toug** **h**  
  
There were times when Nerdanel stayed awake in the night, lost in her husband's mind.  
  
_\- ever looking for a reason to put me aside -_  
  
_\- better an heir would he make;_ _he knows,_ _he_ _covets_ _-_  
  
_\- what does Nelyafinwë see in the boy, at any rate -_  
  
_\- loves that family more than -_  
  
_\- Melkor said . . . -_  
  
_\- she didn't want me . . . couldn't live for me . . . I burned, burned, burned,_ _and will again_ _-_  
  
Finally, feeling as if she were drowning, Nerdanel nudged him, unable to bear any more. A moment later, Fëanáro blinked against the night, his hand clasping hers as the flames banked once more.


	88. "whose home is timelessness"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond/Celebrían & Ensemble || Prompt: _Time, Heal, Companion, Space, Save, Distinguishing, Hate, Gap, Anomaly, Suspicious, Plea, Sister, Brother, Mother, Father, Child, Near, Far, Distance, Length, Width, Less, Few, Same, More, Lots, Swift, Shake, Blood, Blank, Trouble_
> 
> We have a few more drabble sets, and then onwards to our scheduled programing. For this drabble dump, apparently I have a few feelings where the elves of Rivendell are concerned . . . just a few. ;)

**Time  
  
** The years (centuries, millennia) fell away with that first dawn.  
  
The rising sun spilled over her skin, painting delicate colours in the silver canvas of her hair and illuminating patterns that he had touched and kissed and loved the night before. (Where, for the first, he did not dream of Mordor's blood and ashes.)  
  
Distantly, Elrond knew that he should wake her for breakfast and her first morning as Lady, and yet . . .  
  
(Too much time had already been taken from them, and though Celebrían did awaken – blue eyes brilliant and aflame – they did not rejoin the rest of the valley until supper.)  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Companion**  
  
Throughout the long years of his life, Glorfindel had lived in many places: from Valmar upon the Holy Mountain to Gondolin and it's pale, shimmering reflection of Tirion upon Túna. Yet, in its own way, Imladris surpassed them all with the magic in the constant song of the cascades and the natural glory of the land.  
  
Glorfindel exhaled with the dawn, and looked West, reaching out to giving his daily greeting to Elenwë and his King. Here, there was healing and light, and he could imagine no better place to shadow the family his heart would serve until the world's end.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Suspicious**  
  
He'd spent the last two days organizing a crate of ancient Númenorean scrolls, just recently arrived from Lond Daer.  
  
Naturally, Erestor was suspicious when Glorfindel volunteered his assistance. But, when he accused him outright of mischief, the other elf pretended to be wounded by his words, and nothing nefarious happened to found Erestor's suspicions.  
  
(But that innocence was a feint, for he later found that Glorfindel had used his distraction to reorganize his personal collection with simpering romance novels and children's tales. Annoyed, Erestor weeded out the imposter books, resolved to put something foul smelling in Glorfindel's hair-potions as soon as he could.)  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Few**  
  
Once, she'd known Valandil as a boy with wide, solemn eyes; the only one of Isildur's sons not old enough for warring in Mordor beyond. She'd delighted in telling him stories, drawn from her own worries by endeavoring to see him smile.  
  
But now Valandil was a father – and a grandfather – reminding Celebrían of mankind's ephemeral days as a blow.  
  
“If you ask kindly,” Valandil told Arantar, “The Lady here knows more stories than even I.”  
  
“And I would delight in their telling, child.” She knelt before the boy, and smiled as she stood still against the eddy of time once more.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Plea**  
  
Long before her marriage, Celebrían knew that her husband worked much too hard. Which was why, after noticing that Elrond frowned overlong at the same letter, she slid her arms around his shoulders and softly kissed his neck. She felt his focus shift, and smiled against his skin.  
  
_There is much that requires my attention_ , Elrond sighed against her mind, but did not move to push her away.  
  
_Including your wife_ , she was unyielding. _Would you have me beg, mel-hervenn?_ He hesitated, but she felt her victory when she nipped at the point of his ear, and the letters were then happily forgotten.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Mother**  
  
There was a moment's surreality following the birth of her grandsons; knowing that the daughter she had long ago borne was now a mother herself.  
  
When Galadriel first came to Endórë, she'd held an eye solely for land and power; now, her gaze was happiest when beholding those dearest to her. She'd come to find a strength in such bonds, such loves, and now . . .  
  
Celebrían was exhausted, but glowing, and when Galadriel kissed her brow, her own eyes burned. “There is no greater path than this, my daughter,” she whispered. “I wish you nothing but joy at its every turn.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Sister**  
  
At first, Elladan was quite unsure what to do with a sister – a girl who would sew and sing and play with dolls all day long. Though he hadn't been disappointed, per se, he had, for a moment, wished . . .  
  
But when he held Arwen for the first, Elladan found his heart quite taken. “We will teach you how to string your bow and ride your pony and find tracks in the wood,” he vowed. By his side, Elrohir crowded in so that he too could greet the babe. “There will be none who can stand against you; not with we here to protect you.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Brother**  
  
Sometimes, Arwen wished that she didn't have brothers: who were loud and boisterous and tugged at her braids and liked to steal her dolls and hold them beyond her reach.  
  
And then, sometimes - as when they stood before the elf who'd sneered a comment for her human heritage (in Lothlórien, the blood of the Elves was old and their contact with the outside world few) and blithely pointed out the Elven-kings she could claim kinship to, she loved them dearly; so much so that she held both of their hands as they walked, quite content in the shadow they shared.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Same**  
  
She found her daughter dancing in the gardens; spinning to an imagined melody, a book forgotten on the bench, and the waning daylight throwing shadows from her feet.  
  
Celebrían paused to fondly watch her. When Arwen noticed, she grinned to proclaim: “I am Lúthien Tinúviel, Nana! And I am waiting for the nightingales to sing.”  
  
Feeling struck by a blow, though she knew not why, Celebrían slowly sat down on the bench, and took the forgotten book in hand – her fingertips seemingly scalded for its touch. All the while, Arwen continued to dance, and the twilight gleamed from her eyes.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Distinguishing**  
  
There were days when wearing Vilya was an insurmountable burden. Donning the Ring had been yet another service to his King, a vow he took before he had a family to care for and protect. Celebrían had refused him his duty alone in life - even though she too had little liking for the Ring - and now, for that duty . . .  
  
There were days when Elrond finally understood the burden that had been on Elwing's shoulders as the warden of the Silmaril . . . then, there were days when he held his family close, and felt that he would never understand her at all.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Father**  
  
Though Elrond first feared for his ability to be a father – for he'd never known his own sire, and though others had raised him in love, it was not quite the same – Celebrían found such fears unfounded as she watched him interact with their children, a deep affection binding them all.  
  
For a moment, she hesitated, recalling the wounds her mother bore from Alqualondë . . . her father from Doriath . . . the scars left from Sirion. Even so, she bowed her head and thanked the One for those who had loved her husband . . . and prayed that they had since found peace of their own.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Blood**  
  
There were traces of Lúthien to be found in Arwen more so than any other of her blood.  
  
Looking at his granddaughter, Celeborn remembered springtime in Menegroth; he remembered his kinswoman's thoughtful wisdom; her grace and affection and resilience; along with a thousand other things now lost to memory and time. But then Arwen would tilt her head in a gesture that was all her mother, or frown in a way that was Galadriel – all before laughing in a way that was solely herself – and Celeborn would consider her resemblance to the Fairest-born no more . . . at least, for a little while.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Trouble**  
  
Their sister's unfortunate allotment of beauty meant only one thing: trouble for her brothers, who were determined to see that unworthy suitors were kept far, far away.  
  
Which meant that the founding of Fornost was a challenge – with the mortal men and their staring eyes and their blithe misunderstanding of elven ways . . . Arwen, who'd known only elven-homes until then, was wide-eyed and oblivious to their pains, but if she knew . . .  
  
“Someday, Arwen will choose, and there will be naught we can do but support her,” Elrohir pointed out.  
  
“Yet, until then,” Elladan muttered, glaring at another awe-struck courtier, "we carry on."  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Space**  
  
The last of the summer storms rumbled overhead. The murmur of the rain was soft and insistent, prompting her to put her book aside in favor of the storm-song. Drowsy with contentment, she leaned against Elrond, feeling as he slowly ran an absent hand up and down her back, he equally as lulled as she.  
  
For while she loved her family and her people, it was these moments she cherished the most – when they were far away from all, with the rain sounding in time with her husband's heartbeat, prompting her to close her eyes and think of nothing more.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Anomaly**  
  
There was a whisper of unease upon the wind; a ripple touched the water in warning.  
  
Frowning, Lindir looked up from where he had set his harp to play – with no melody in mind but to match the murmur of the cascades and the autumn as it crowned the land in gold. His fingers halted on the strings as he looked to the north, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the change of the seasons.  
  
Sorrow pierced his heart, instinctively knowing that something terrible had been awakened, once again allowing the Shadow to fall upon the land.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Save**  
  
Perhaps naively, Celebrían had desperately hoped that the wars they'd long fought would ensure that her sons knew naught of the same.  
  
They looked so young to her eyes, even with their armor gleaming and their steel held in hand. But they were her sons, and she could feel their apprehension alongside their determination to see Angmar vanquished, just and noble as their cause was.  
  
“Come home to me,” she kissed Elladan's cheek, before turning to Elrohir. “And keep your father well where I cannot.” _For I do not know what I would do without you_ , went unspoken, but felt nonetheless.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Hate**  
  
Amongst the camps of the Dúnedain, Elrohir could not help but notice his twin's fascination for, and easy disposition with, their mortal comrades.  
  
Elrohir frowned . . . not hating the choice that Elladan would prefer to make, so much as he hated knowing that he would follow him - even beyond the veils of mortal death, if needed.  
  
He looked up when he realized that their father too watched Elladan - Elrond's thoughts no doubt closely aligned with his own as he once again prepared to . . .  
  
But Elrohir sharply inhaled, telling himself that their choice was still to come, and its outcome was uncertain.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Child**  
  
She found Fíriel in the gardens, delicately trying to calm her nerves and rebelling stomach. At first Celebrían paused, knowing that the Princess from Gondor had her own ladies for such confidences . . . but the girl looked so young, dressed up as a bride, and too far from home to be given to a man she barely knew.  
  
Celebrían touched the woman's miserable spirit with her own light, feeling the great courage and mettle she bore - then knowing with a moment's foresight that Arvedui was blessed with his match, even as she went to sooth his wife-to-be for the road ahead.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Shake**  
  
Arahael Aranarth's son was a gentle child who grew into a solemn youth, poised on the precipice of greatness. All in the valley had come to love the mortal her parents fostered, and though Arwen first told herself that she would linger from afar, she too knew affection for him.  
  
Even so, as Arahael prepared to leave Imladris for leading his people in the wild, she could not shake the moment's foresight she knew looking at him, standing strong and proud in a reflection of Númenor's glory, knowing -  
  
\- but then she blinked, and the moment was gone, as intangible as mist.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**More**  
  
Aravir was a happy child, much as his father and grandfather before him. Arahael watched his grandson from the balcony, affection in his aged face as he said to Elrond, “Only yesterday it seems that child was me . . . but I am old now, while you have seemingly aged not a day.”  
  
Arahael sighed, but his eyes were clear when he said: “While I know the burdens you must bear for this path, it brings me peace to know that my children's children will have a haven here; with wisdom to guide their steps when their forefathers live no more.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Blank**  
  
“If you continue to frown so, you will not be able to move your face from that expression,” distantly, Elrond heard his wife tease him. However, he could not quite quell his feelings of unease - no matter that the path to Lothlórien was a familiar one, and Celebrían would be well protected on the road.  
  
He could not bring himself to reply, instead holding her for longer than was his norm before biding her farewell. All the while, he glimpsed a grey sort of mist for the future ahead . . . a blank sort of nothingness . . . and his heart was troubled for it.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Length**  
  
She felt it grapple within the length of her spirit: a terrible, tugging sensation that she had not felt since the First Age, when she had many such loved ones to mourn.  
  
Galadriel leaned against the doorway, feeling the mountains tremble in her bones as her pain was reflected by her family, intensifying the feeling a hundred fold.  
  
Immediately, she felt her husband at her elbow, keeping her upright. “The road has taken her,” she whispered, her voice little more than an exhale as she turned in on herself to help her daughter though her pains the best she could.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Swift**  
  
There was a ship with grey sails, moving swiftly towards the horizon.  
  
Maglor looked on with old, tired eyes, feeling his spirit twist as it had not in many ages of the world. Above the ship, Eärendil's star was brighter than he'd long seen it to be, throwing the heavens in turmoil as he burned against the scarlet sky, lighting the way for the ship below. Troubled, he listened to the murmur of the water, and he knew . . .  
  
Feeling his heart mourn for his fosterling's pain, Maglor raised his ruined hands to his harp, and joined the sea in its lament.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Width**  
  
There was something missing from the valley, and Elladan did not yet know how to cope with it - ever expecting to see his mother's face in the mornings, and hear her laughter in the evenings. He was not yet used to his father standing as one, rather than half of two, and for that absence, Elladan felt . . .  
  
The first time Arwen was named as Lady of Imladris to the visitors from Mithlond, Elladan could not stay with the gathering. Instead, he found a deserted corner of the gardens and wept, self-loathing and blame filling in the gaps his mother had left behind.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Gap**  
  
Nearly fifty years following Celebrían's sailing, Aravorn brought his son to Imladris.  
  
Elrond felt a bittersweet rise in his heart, remembering the fondness Celebrían had once known for him. Aravorn had only been three and ten when Celebrían fell, and his grief had been as real as that of her natural-born children.  
  
“I know the Lady is gone,” Aravorn started, his voice thick - perhaps remembering that, once, he had to be taught not to call her _mother._ “But, my son . . .”  
  
“ - is welcome here,” Elrond finished for him, stealing himself as he opened his home and his heart once more.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Near**  
  
Though Gilraen knew from the beginning that her time with her husband was borrowed, its end still came much too soon. She moved in a daze, nothing – from the beauty of the valley to the needs of her toddling son – able to touch her heart for many days following.  
  
Until, finally, she looked down at Aragorn – Estel, now – and saw so much of Arathorn that it was first as a pain. But she gathered herself, knowing then that her husband would always be near - reflected in her son - and it was left to her to carry on his legacy as best she could.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Lots**  
  
There were dwarves everywhere: raiding the pantries, breaking into the cellars, and _bathing in the fountains_. There was no end in sight, and Erestor was slowly losing his wits.  
  
“Oh, when's the last time we had this much fun in the valley?” Glorfindel waved a hand. “You love the opportunity to play the host, admit it.”  
  
“To gracious, _civilized_ guests, yes I do,” Erestor all but growled. Punctuating his words, he heard a groaning sound from the walls, and knew . . .  
  
“Ah, that is my cue to have the plumbing checked,” Glorfindel winced to say. Wisely, he did not broach the subject again.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Far**  
  
The last thing Thorin expected to find in the libraries of Rivendell was a book from Moria, penned by King Nothri Stonehand, the Khuzdul so old that Thorin only understood certain words. To his shame, he knew more of the Sindarin translations, then wondering why a Dwarf would bother -  
  
“My wife had a talent for endearing herself to others,” Elrond explained, the shadow of an old hurt coloring his eyes. “Nothri was dear to her heart, and lives still in her memories.”  
  
Thorin merely stared at the ancient book, feeling further far away from home than he had in quite some time.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Less**  
  
Her son grew with Elendil's mark upon his heart and Elros' nobility within his spirit. More than being all that she had left of her husband, Aragorn was hope reborn for her people, and for the path she knew he would walk . . .  
  
Every time he rode out from the valley with Elrond's sons she felt her heart rise in her chest, fearing for the unkind ways of fate. Standing by the Elf-lord's side, Gilraen watched them depart, and finally asked, “Does it ever fade, the uncertainty . . . the worry?”  
  
Elrond gave a slow, sad smile, and shook his head to answer, “Never.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Distance**  
  
As the years passed, Elrond remembered them all. He remembered Elros and his family; keeping close to his every descendant until Númenor fell to the Shadow. He remembered Elendil and his sons, just as he remembered Aranarth placing Arahael in his arms, leading to Aranuir . . . Aravir . . . Aragorn the first . . . Araglas . . . Arahad . . . Aragost . . . Aravorn . . . Arahad again . . . Arassuil . . . Arathorn . . . Argonui . . . Arador . . . and Arathorn again . . . along with their siblings and wives and daughters. Elrond loved them all, and honored his brother with his memory.  
  
And now he would give what he loved best to Aragorn, and hold their memories close throughout time, just the same.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
**Heal**  
  
There was, Bilbo was quite certain, nothing more healing than the timeless ways of Imladris; where the cascades sang and the valley hummed with peace and life and _magic_. He had enjoyed his years spent in the Last Homely House, but he could now feel his bones weigh down his body, even as he labored underneath a weariness he could not seem to shake. He was old now; his time was ebbing.  
  
So, he looked to the West, and imagined one last adventure, one last quest . . . and maybe, just maybe, one last chance at rest and healing before his life was through.


	89. "where time comes in waves"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ensemble Gondolindrim || Prompts: _Sneeze, Cough, Blink, Hiccup, Fart, Feather, Fur, Tail, Tooth, Claw, Lashes, Numb, Jovial, Irate, Calm, Restless, Breathe, Pain, Heart, Head, Broken, Abject, Survival, Eventuality, Underground, Hidden, Reach, Stumble, Fall, Rise, Soar_
> 
> Some of these prompts were quite interesting to write for, let me tell you. But here we are with lots of goodness from Gondolin! Though I have to give a **Warning** for dub!con and unhealthy relationships of the Eöl and Aredhel variety, implied torture, stalking, and all sorts of uncomfortable things that come with Maeglin's story-line. If that's not your cup of tea, you may wish to wait for the next one.

**Breathe  
  
** More than merely the bidding of a Vala; Ondolindë was the culmination of his own longing, his own desires for a haven in the middle of a land burdened by Shadow, protected and safe against the darkness lurking beyond.  
  
The first time he stepped onto the summit of the King's tower, hearing the music of the fountains laugh like bells below, while the wind sweetly whistled down from the mountains, Turgon looked to the west and whispered, “You would have loved it here.”  
  
Seemingly in reply, the breeze gently rustled his hair, and he knew that his words were heard.  
  
  
  
**Calm**  
  
In those first years, Idril cultivated the gardens, planting hardy roses and bell-flowers much as her mother once had. She found peace working the soil, and her contentment, she was surprised to find, was shared by another.  
  
“I did not want the vine to be choked,” Rog murmured when she found him tending the weeds. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the white current of his spirit calm with a ripple.  
  
_Once, I thought to never see a growing thing again_ , his mind whispered, and she knew . . .  
  
“I understand,” she replied, and knelt down to join him.  
  
  
  
**Restless**  
  
The stale stillness of the mountains was beginning to stifle her, choking her of her spirit and vim.  
  
“Valinor itself could hold me not,” Aredhel challenged her brother. “Would you truly keep me here against my will?” Even so, she did not look to the west, but to the east; not for their brother, but for . . .  
  
Turgon felt his fingers close into fists. “And would you truly risk the good of all to assuage your wanderlust?” _For one of them, even after . . ._ But his words touched her not, and the next morning she rode beyond where he could see.  
  
  
  
**Head**  
  
“Penlod laid a bet,” Glorfindel solemnly explained as Ecthelion slapped a cold compress against his eye - or, where his eye supposedly was amongst the ruined tissue and swollen blood vessels.  
  
“For which is stronger: your thick skull, or Rog's fists?” Ecthelion huffed.  
  
“Almost exactly,” Glorfindel tried to say brightly, but the effect was ruined by his wincing. “I'll admit to being curious, seeing as how our dear Sinda is built more like a _troll_ than an elf -”  
  
“ - well, that answers that now, doesn't it?” Ecthelion commented wryly.  
  
“That answers that,” Glorfindel agreed, and pressed the ice more securely to his face.  
  
  
  
**Pain**  
  
Often would Idril turn in on herself, and search for her aunt.  
  
Once, she found a forest, ancient and primeval. The wood was dark, the trees holding a memory of the land under starlight alone; the ground was saturated with _possession_ , and the old boughs echoed with a far off song, one first sang in joy and gladness, but now . . .  
  
That song was twisted - _trapping, choking_ \- and no matter how she fought, she could not get out, she -  
  
\- but Idril opened her eyes, and was _Idril_ again . . . and she could not find the source of Aredhel's pain, no matter how she looked.  
  
  
  
**Irate**  
  
To think that they'd once laughed when Finrod told of the Maia-queen and her stolen King . . . but Thingol had been happily enchanted, and Melian could not truly steal what was freely given, unlike . . .  
  
Aredhel had fought against the bonds of Nan Elmoth, and Turgon could feel the bruised and battered state of her fëa, even now tugging her back towards _him_.  
  
Life only returned to her listless expression when he looked at her son, and thought . . .  
  
“He is my son,” Aredhel bared her teeth to say.  
  
“And, his father?” Turgon's whisper was low.  
  
Aredhel flinched. “He is _my_ son, that's all that matters.”  
  
  
  
**Claw**  
  
Every step away from the forest had felt as a dagger underneath her skin. Nan Elmoth had been steeped in a Maia's longing and _want_ , and while Aredhel had finally fought against the tugging on her soul, Eöl had not . . . he could not, for he had been a part of the forest for longer than she.  
  
Which was why she turned cold when Eöl found them, fearing . . .  
  
She desperately clawed against every lingering enchantment to thwart her mate's will, for Maeglin was _her_ son, and she would fight to protect him until she had not a breath left to do so.  
  
  
  
**Numb**  
  
The walls above the Caragdûr were bright under the noon sun; turning his skin pink and burning his eyes. He had stood there as two of Turgon's lords forced his father over the edge, and now, though he no longer felt his sire's presence choking his spirit, he could still hear . . .  
  
_Ill-begotten son of mine, here too shall you end . . ._  
  
Maeglin shivered, though the day was warm, feeling suddenly empty in his own skin, with first his mother, and now his father . . .  
  
Finally, he frowned at the void, and solemnly vowed: “I will be nothing like you," before turning away.  
  
  
  
**Heart**  
  
Idril found Maeglin's rooms black against the sun – much as Nan Elmoth had been, she gleaned from his mind. He stared listlessly ahead, only flinching when she opened the curtains, letting in the light.  
  
He stared at her, his heart in his eyes, and she felt as the strange sort of _possession_ and _greed_ woven about his spirit turned in baffled wonderment.  
  
“The light shall not burn you,” she tried to jest.  
  
“I fear it already has,” Maeglin stared at her as if seeing the sun for the first, and Idril felt as if a vine seemingly wrapped about them both, and pulled.  
  
  
  
**Underground**  
  
The Lord of Turgon's forges - a large elf, almost to the point of unnatural, working with more strength than finesse - was almost as surprising to Maeglin as the light illuminating the workroom – which was all clean white lines and glass windows and gleaming steel, and so, so different from the dwarf-ways he'd learned from Eöl in the darkness of the forest, that -  
  
\- but Rog smiled for his surprise. “I could only work under the light after forging steel in Angband. The change was soothing, I found.”  
  
Maeglin looked about, and hesitantly smiled in return. “I . . . I think that I can understand.”  
  
  
  
**Soar**  
  
At first, Turgon did not recognize his father's corpse when it was brought to him.  
  
Thorondor bowed his great head, and the Eagle's thoughts touched his heart: _The Enemy went to desecrate his body; such a gross act would not be borne._  
  
Turgon had felt his father's death, but it did not seem _real_ until he was left with the remnants of Morgoth's fine work. Briefly, he touched Fingon's spirit, letting him know that their father's hröa, at least, would know a proper resting place where the mountains seemingly touched the stars, and, together, they took what peace from that they could.  
  
  
  
**Fart**  
  
There were times when Turgon felt as if he headed a troupe of mummers, rather than a council of lords.  
  
They were all sitting very, very still. Not a one would dare meet his eyes as, slowly, Glorfindel rose, and picked up the now deflated contraption which had let loose the rather . . . flatulent noise.  
  
“Well played,” he finally congratulated. “Now, pray that I don't find out who did this, for my retribution shall be swift . . . and silent.”  
  
At that, Ecthelion chortled outright, and Turgon sighed: he was almost certain that his brother did not have to persevere through such nonsense in _his_ court.  
  
  
  
**Tail**  
  
Sometimes, she felt as if her cousin was a clawed beast that she held by the tail. At times, he was nothing but boyish, awkward smiles and wonderment for the wide world he so newly discovered. Other times, as when she talked overly much with their new mortal guests, his eyes followed her, and she felt his gaze as fingertips tracing her spine.  
  
“He is a quiet sort of fellow,” Húrin said diplomatically, noticing her glance over her shoulder.  
  
Huor said nothing, but he walked arm and arm with her as if standing as a shield. All the while, Maeglin watched, and remembered.  
  
  
  
**Hidden**  
  
“There are some who would say that you take your steel with too much seriousness.”  
  
“If anyone truly knew me well, they would not accuse me of seriousness overly long.” Glorfindel saluted to say, but he did not move from sharpening the sword in his hand.  
  
Penlod frowned, watching the sunlight sparkle off the blade. “Yet, is such truly needed _here_ , hidden as we are?”  
  
“I think,” Glorfindel muttered, “that the security of concealment is nothing but an illusion; and as with the best of illusions, that secret is someday learned. I would be ready for that day – would not you?”  
  
  
  
**Abject**  
  
The world was larger than Maeglin had ever imagined, as was the evil it held within. But they were there to vanquish the Shadow, and so he held his ground against Angband's might; no matter that for every vanquished foe, a hundred more seemingly appeared; no matter that Fingon fell to Balrog-fire, and he was close enough to _feel_ the flame of his soul departing; no matter that Huor gave a bloody smile as he died, whispering of starlight and fate; no matter, no matter, _no matter_ . . .  
  
When the day was done, Maeglin bowed his head, and shook too badly to yet give into tears.  
  
  
  
**Fur**  
  
There was no mercy – nor warmth – to be found in the Fell Winter, and Voronwë huddled together with the mortal beneath their shared fur while the storm passed.  
  
“I remember my father speaking of the Helcaraxë,” he whispered through numb lips. “He was half-Telerin, a shipbuilder of Alqualondë; the Valar did not protect his people in Aman, so how was it to be any different in Endórë? he'd thought, and made the crossing. Perhaps I was foolish to hope in them, and the Sea is unkind to such foolishness, and yet . . .”  
  
He felt Tuor shiver, and thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd found the Valar's aid, even so.  
  
  
  
**Coug** **h**  
  
While Tuor, cloaked in Ulmo's grace and weathered by his journey, cut an impressive first impression, Glorfindel thought that the mortal man cleaned up rather well – with his yellow-gold hair smoothed into a queue and his beard neatly trimmed, and his great form already recovering from his lack of sustenance on the road. He looked much as his father had.  
  
Yet . . . Idril had never stared at Huor so. When Glorfindel commented on such in an offhanded manner, she coughed and sputtered into her wine – drawing Tuor's eye in return . . . and he was not as quick as the princess to look away.  
  
  
  
**Hiccup**  
  
Tuor cut into the dance the princess was sharing with her cousin before he realized he was doing so – ignoring the other man's dark grey eyes and the way his fingertips pressed into Idril's skin before he let her go – his heart thundering all the while.  
  
“You looked as if you were not enjoying yourself,” Tuor whispered into her ear, and he imagined that he felt her shiver.  
  
“And you assumed I would with you?” Idril returned, arching a brow. “You'd presume me so easily conquered?”  
  
He paused, considering his error – when he saw her eyes glitter, and he let himself smile.  
  
  
  
**Survival**  
  
When he saw his daughter struggle with her heart, Turgon's first instinct was to do his utmost to shield her from what would, inevitability, end in heartache. But he knew his daughter . . . after loving with such intensity, she would not love so again, and truly . . . he would not trade his few years spent with his own wife for any other course, so how could he ask the same of her?  
  
“If he would live forever, what would your answer be?” Turgon's voice was gentle. In reply, he watched as understanding . . . and acceptance . . . leapt into Idril's eyes, making them brilliant to behold.  
  
  
  
**Blink**  
  
Idril and Tuor's wedding feast was such as Gondolin had never celebrated before, and all rejoiced. Only one did not seem to be enjoying the revelry, and Salgant sat down as elegantly as he could next to the glowering prince, seeing an opportunity to make himself useful to the King's house.  
  
“It is always difficult, giving up our woman-folk to others, is it not?” he thought to empathize, but something in Maeglin's eyes only darkened – as the parts of the wood the sun could not reach – before clearing again, the moment passing so quickly that Salgant thought to imagine it entirely.  
  
  
  
**Lashes**  
  
The first time she noticed the marks marring Tuor's skin, Idril had stared, not with longing, but with disquiet and regret for the pains he had endured throughout his life. Lorgan had not been a kind master, this she knew all too well from her new place within her husband's mind - for Tuor never voiced such memories aloud - but now . . .  
  
She enjoyed the hiss Tuor gave – not in pain, but in pleasure – when she ran her mouth over the one long scar bisecting his torso, determined as she was to rewrite every black memory with something beautiful instead.  
  
  
  
**Tooth**  
  
Tuor angrily tossed his circlet to the side, satisfaction filling him as it clattered. Idril followed behind him, her face creased in worry.  
  
“The years of isolation have not benefited your father's mind,” Tuor finally exclaimed aloud. “After the Nírnaeth . . . and now Doriath . . . few are the sanctuaries outside Gondolin, but I have a _Vala's word_ that this city will fall. He protects no one this way, and with your cousin fighting tooth and nail against my every word . . .”  
  
Idril put a gentle hand on his arm, and felt the future shape as she said: “Then, we will have to form our own path.”  
  
  
  
**Stumble**  
  
He had stumbled down a wrong path in the mines – determined as he was to cast aside thoughts of her, always _her_ – and was now lost to the North, with only one path, besides death, to end his suffering in sight.  
  
And the Lieutenant of Angband knew his craft too well to surrender his victims to Námo, Maeglin despaired, wishing . . .  
  
“I can't. She . . .” _I love her, and love cannot, will not . . ._  
  
_You are your father's son; you'll naught find it difficult in time_ , Maeglin clearly heard the Lieutenant sneer before the pain tightened around him like vines, and he knew no more.  
  
  
  
**Reach**  
  
There were times when he was bewildered, wondering how he bore not a scratch, not a mark to speak of his time in Angband's clutches. Sometimes, he wondered if he'd imagined it all, before the knowledge that, for what he shamefully desired the most, the cost to be paid demanded . . .  
  
He watched Rog hammer away at the anvil, distracted from his thoughts when the scars etched onto the smith's back danced with his motions. For a moment, Maeglin swallowed, wanting to reach out and _explain_ , to _confess_ -  
  
\- then he swallowed, and buried his regrets beneath the forest-shadow lurking deep within his soul.  
  
  
  
**Sneeze**  
  
That first sneeze, perhaps, should have been a warning; but Idril was still learning the ways of Men, and so, when the illness progressed to the point where Tuor was taken abed, she stood by him, determined to see him well again.  
  
If ever she was disquieted by the mortality such moments displayed . . . foreshadowing what, someday, would be all that was left of his strength and vigor . . .  
  
But Tuor caught her thought, and kissed the back of her hand - still concerned for her amidst his own pains - and Idril buried her misgivings, knowing that with such a bond, nothing else mattered.  
  
  
  
**Feather**  
  
Oftentimes, he liked to sit on the balcony of his grandfather's tower, where the winds were sweet and the Eagles were known to fly. Distantly, Eärendil imagined he could smell the Sea, though he knew it to be many leagues away.  
  
Once, Turgon sat next to him, and asked, “What are you looking for, child?”  
  
He smiled a secret smile, and shared: “I have this dream, of starlight on the water, and a bird who is looking for me. I have to be there for her, for her wings are new and will tire easily; and so, I am waiting.”  
  
  
  
**Bro** **k** **en**  
  
Maeglin managed to avoid the half-elven child more often than not - which did not explain the boy's queer way of seeking him out, always with an excuse, such as:  
  
“It is broken, and I cannot fix it,” Eärendil held out a toy soldier whose leg had seen better days. “But you can fix anything, can you not?”  
  
Maeglin looked down at his bright blue eyes – Tuor's eyes – but for a moment, he only saw . . .  
  
_Idril._  
  
He flinched, knowing that, soon, the boy's fallen soldier would not be the only one in Gondolin, and turned away from the child without a word.  
  
  
  
**Rise**  
  
_Gondolin had been found._ He'd never seen such a concentration of demonic entities before - not even at the Nírnaeth, when Morgoth's fleet of Dragons and Balrogs had been utilized the whole battle-field wide. And now . . .  
  
For a moment, Penlod was shocked in his place, unable to rise up and meet the enemy at their gates. Until . . .  
  
“Angband made me,” Rog muttered, calmly stepping forth. “It is time they see the fruits of their labors returned.”  
  
He then raised his war-hammer, and let loose a battle-cry. After finding his own voice, Penlod echoed his cry, and followed him to meet Morgoth's challenge.  
  
  
  
**Eventuality**  
  
The day went not as all as Maeglin expected . . . with first Turgon falling . . . the fair streets and gentle fountains next lost to fire and blood . . . and Idril with fear in her eyes as all that was good within him submitted to fey rage when Tuor dared to interfere, trying to keep him from what was his, _always his_ -  
  
It was as a memory when he fell from the walls of the Caragdûr, for a moment weightless as he traced the same path Eöl had taken to his death, just as was foretold, and he knew: _I am my father's son._  
  
  
  
**Fall**  
  
With Idril stunned from her father's death and her cousin's betrayal, leadership of Gondolin's survivors fell to Tuor, whilst to its remaining lords . . . Glorfindel drew in a deep breath, knowing . . .  
  
. . . but not yet.  
  
His shield arm was now useless, and Ecthelion's face was white from blood-loss as he trailed a hand through the fountain that supported his weight. “Valour enough do I have left to cover your retreat,” he vowed, even so, picking up Orcrist for the last time.  
  
“Look for me in Mandos, my friend,” Glorfindel placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “For I shall join you soon.”  
  
  
  
**Jovial**  
  
The journey down from the mountains was long and fraught with tragedy. Though the faces around him were weary with grief and loss, Voronwë felt gladness rise within him as they saw the barest lines of a settlement being built next to the Sea.  
  
He could not hold in his joy as he started to sing. Those nearest to him picked up his song, while at the head of their host, Tuor stood next to his wife and son, his golden head gleaming in the light - showing them to safety and the hope of life anew, just as was promised.


	90. "to fall from depth to depth of air"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ensemble Sirion cast (Eärendil/Elwing, Celeborn/Galadriel, Idril/Tuor) || Prompts: _Insanity, Asylum, Deranged, Sane, Homestead, Vineyard, Kindle, Spark, Flame, Consume, Ash, Salt, Tide, Harbor, Anchor, Undertow, Root, Branch, Sapling, Ancient, Circle, Own, Up, Down, Left, Right, Center, Warden, Boss, Principal, Master, Parent, Gods, Deities, Demon, Entity, Holy, Witch, Magic, Healer_
> 
> And here we are with the last of these drabble dumps - for now. ;) This set fits into my Sirion tales, follows up on my Gondolin tales, and leads into my massive Maglor/Maedhros/Elrond/Elros arch . . . so enjoy. :p

**Asylum  
  
** Their progress was slow, but steady as their people worked with the Falathrim to build a home on the seashore; ill as the surviving Doriathrim were to the thought of the Isle of Balar and a home enclosed by the Sea – and one Noldor governed, at that. Much did they prefer the birch-woods of Arvernien, and there would their newfound haven be.  
  
But Galadriel looked up, a pang piercing her heart with sorrow as she felt the Shadow move in the north, knowing that, soon, they would not be the only ones seeking out Sirion for asylum and life lived anew.  
  
  
  
**Insanity**  
  
At first, Annael wondered if he was having a moment of fey delusion when he heard _his_ voice in the crowd. For it had to be madness – _insanity_ \- for him to look, hoping to find . . .  
  
For _there_ , leading the survivors from Gondolin, was a mortal man, mature in his years compared to the youth he had raised and lost, perhaps, but still _his_ ward, the son of his heart, and -  
  
Tears burned in Annael's eyes, but his tears were shared by Tuor when he embraced his child, thanking the Valar for blessings in the most unexpected of places once more.  
  
  
  
**Deities**  
  
He could not breathe when first he saw her. Eärendil stared, certain that he'd stumbled upon a celestial creature – one of the Ainur, perhaps - as he gaped at the silent, pale girl standing in Lady Galadriel's shadow. He tugged on his mother's sleeve, and whispered, _“Is she Lúthien?”_ in a voice that trembled.  
  
At first, Idril blinked, before understanding set in. “She is Lúthien's granddaughter,” his mother's smile was sad in reply. “And she is, no doubt, very much in need of a friend.”  
  
Slowly, Eärendil nodded his head, his look of awe then traded for one of solemn determination.  
  
  
  
**Roots**  
  
Winter came with a sigh of frost and snow. As the sun set on the solstice, Celeborn walked through the birch-wood, touching his hand to the trees that grieved for the loss their roots knew in far off places. He bowed his head, remembering Doriath as each survivor flickered through the forest as silent specters, paying their respects.  
  
Distantly, one voice rose in lament, its ghostly whisper turning stronger with each soul who picked up the song. But Celeborn could not find his voice as he glanced to Elwing, his heart heavy for the numb expression she turned on the trees.  
  
  
  
**Homestead**  
  
They built their home where the windows were open to the sea-air, and the ocean's blue expanse lingered behind every doorway. Though Idril held the Sea in awe, her awe paled next to the love her husband and son knew for Ulmo's ways – a love that, she knew, was stiffed in Gondolin before.  
  
Even so, every time Eärendil played on Ecthelion's willow-flute . . . or Egalmoth repeated a joke Glorfindel had once favored . . . every time she wished to share a part of her day with her father . . . Idril closed her eyes, and turned her head to the West, hoping that someday . . .  
  
. . . but not yet.  
  
  
  
**Left**  
  
All Elwing wanted was to be left alone - away from the waves' irritating murmur and the sand that got _everywhere_. She often hid in the birch-wood, missing Doriath's ancient beech trees and nightingale-song . . . and her mother . . . her father . . .  
  
Her brothers would have loved the Sea, her mind traitorously whispered. Undoubtedly, they would have gotten along with the stubborn boy who showed not an ounce of common courtesy when he found her hiding spot in the woods _again_ -  
  
“I will not leave you like this,” Eärendil insisted, and Elwing glowered with every bit of Thingol's blood in her veins – but to no effect.  
  
  
  
**Center**  
  
At times, Galadriel was overwhelmed by the wounds still lashing her ward's spirit. Yet, when she found Elwing, lost within the Silmaril's glittering facets and her fëa wheeling in a fey haze, Galadriel did not think before embracing the shaking child.  
  
“I hate it,” Elwing wept, at last voicing her grief aloud. “I hate it so, _so_ much . . . Why were we . . . why was _I_ not equal in worth to a stone . . . a stupid _rock_ . . ."  
  
Galadriel held her tighter in answer, giving of her own light and, hopefully, standing as a center in the girl's storm until time healed what she yet could not.  
  
  
  
**Own**  
  
Elwing at last cried herself to sleep tucked between them; with her head buried against Celeborn's chest, and her fingertips pressed into Galadriel's arm, unwilling to let either of them go.  
  
Galadriel could feel where her husband's arm had gone numb, but he continued to run a soothing hand through the girl's hair, his spirit gently sheltering Elwing's own. He looked content in that moment, she thought, at ease with a child to nurture, even if she was not -  
  
“Someday,” Celeborn whispered on the wings of her thoughts.  
  
_A daughter_ , Galadriel caught the barest of glimpses, and held onto Elwing all the more so.  
  
  
  
**Healer**  
  
There were times when she was quietly amazed by the woman Idril grew into, far from the child of Aman and the gangly girl-woman who survived the horrors of the Ice.  
  
“I will never be as you,” Idril flushed as she peered over the rim of the Mirror, reverting to her childhood-self with wide-eyed awe and wondrous smiles to hear all that Galadriel had to repeat from Melian's mouth.  
  
“I would not be so certain,” Galadriel tilted her head, feeling the blue, _blue_ spirit Turgon's daughter bore. _The soul of a healer_ , Elenwë had once said, and Galadriel quietly agreed.  
  
  
  
**Kindle**  
  
In Sirion, he found his love for the ocean kindled and nurtured. The first time he sailed a ship without his father and Voronwë to guide him, Eärendil looked breathlessly from his place at the helm, taking in the singing gulls and the way the blue horizon married the sea and sky.  
  
He turned to find his mother – for Idril always stood in the center of the deck, well away from the water's might – only to find her staring at him, a strange look in her eye that always accompanied her visions before she smiled, and praised how much he had learned.  
  
  
  
**Spark**  
  
It took years of gentle coaxing before Elwing felt secure enough in their friendship to speak of Doriath's fall.  
  
Her voice trembled, but he held her hands, grounding her against the pain of her memories. When she at last took out the Silmaril, something possessive - frighteningly so - twisted within her for sharing the hallowed gem, and yet . . .  
  
“You're far more beautiful than any stone,” Eärendil only glanced before pushing the Silmaril away, and for once, Elwing could ignore the gem's presence when his hands squeezed her own. A spark seemingly passed between them, and she blushed, able to focus on little else.  
  
  
  
**Right**  
  
As she grew older, many responsibilities passed to her – for such was her duty as Queen of the Sindar. Even still, Elwing felt ungainly and awkward the first time she wore Dior's crown and headed her council of lords – for she truly was a child who dared to lead so many immortal beings, and there were those – such as Oropher - waiting for her to stumble, and claim Thingol's power for themselves.  
  
Sometimes, Elwing felt unequal to her task, before sternly telling herself that the throne was hers by right: she would not fail the names that came before her.  
  
  
  
**Boss**  
  
Her first time standing as Queen while visiting the Isle of Balar, she looked over the maps Gil-galad had spread out over the council-room's table, disturbed to see how much ground Morgoth had gained in Beleriand. Her disquiet was matched by all those gathered – for there were so very few places his might did not touch.  
  
“Our numbers are few,” the High-king clearly hesitated, “yet, they may be bolstered by an alliance with Fëanor's sons, if we were to trade . . .”  
  
For the first, Elwing's mouth turning in fey anger was matched by Oropher, and they were in perfect agreement with how to lead their people.  
  
  
  
**Deranged**  
  
The first time Celeborn questioned the possibility of feelings existing between her and Eärendil, Elwing looked at the man she viewed as her father as if he were deranged.  
  
“He is like a brother to me,” she protested, her cheeks coloring, even in the half-light of the birch-wood.  
  
Softly, Celeborn chuckled. “Then perhaps you can explain why the boy approached me for permission to court you? He stuttered through his proposal, but he was brave enough to make it to his speech's end – which I commend him for.”  
  
Elwing looked down, feeling a strange – and unexpected – warmth bloom underneath her skin.  
  
  
  
**Principle**  
  
“That you would allow this match is shocking.”  
  
“I would think,” Celeborn raised a brow, not truly surprised by Oropher's outburst, “that our House has already well learned the woes of trying to keep sworn lovers apart.”  
  
“But he is _Noldor_ ," Oropher scathed.  
  
“ - _Prince_ Eärendil is also half-mortal; a heritage Elwing shares,” Celeborn calmly returned. “Unfortunately, she favors none of Thingol's lords.” _Your son included_ , he did not say – well knowing Thranduil's thoughts on the matter.  
  
“Yet, one of _them_ -”  
  
“ - not all Noldor are Kinslayers,” Celeborn finally interrupted coldly. “Well would it be for all if you made that distinction in your heart.”  
  
  
  
**Sane**  
  
“His choice does not surprise me,” Voronwë shrugged. “They are both children of loss, and long have they been friends.”  
  
“Yet, the girl . . . you have to admit,” Egalmoth phrased his reservations delicately. “These Sindar are true faerie-folk, and _she_ more so than most -”  
  
“ - I wouldn't say that where Lord Celeborn can hear.”  
  
“As you are part Falathri, your opinion is invalid,” Egalmoth teased. “And yet . . .”  
  
“She is nothing like Maeglin,” Voronwë said softly. “She is -”  
  
“ - sane,” Egalmoth finished bluntly. “By the barest definition, I suppose, for -”  
  
“ - my son loves her,” Tuor finally interrupted, wanting to hear no more. “And that is all that matters.”  
  
  
  
**Entity**  
  
Though many claimed that she resembled her grandmother; Elwing only saw a body that was delicate and thin, with sharp wrists and too-high cheekbones. Her eyes were large, reflecting the light more so than any color of their own, while her skin was pale near to the point of translucently. She felt as if she could claim beauty only when she wore the Silmaril, sharing her light with its striking reflection of the Trees.  
  
Yet, dressed as a bride and glowing with joy, she felt that, on that day alone, she existed as more than an entity for the Silmaril to possess.  
  
  
  
**Demon**  
  
Though she knew him from Gil-galad's council, she caught his eye at her wedding feast and started to see him - his silver-grey eyes and sharply sculpted features reminding her of winter and steel and _blood_ -  
  
\- but Celebrimbor Curufinwion was not his father, no matter how he resembled him. The Fëanorian merely stared at the gem she wore, and clasped her hand in a desperate grip. “Cast it into the Sea for the good of all, I beg you, your grace.”  
  
Elwing shrugged him away, and found a deserted corner in which to weep, hating that such a joyous day was marked by _their_ shadow.  
  
  
  
**Warden**  
  
All the more often, she found it difficult to keep the Silmaril locked away.  
  
She tossed and turned at night, ill at ease without the gem worn about her throat, wanting for its light to rest against her skin, against her _heart_ -  
  
“Your council meets upon the morn,” Eärendil murmured drowsily. “You need to sleep.”  
  
Elwing closed her eyes as his spirit rose to cradle her own. She fisted her hands as she turned into him, concentrating on the smell of sea-salt and the feel of his seemingly ever sun-warmed skin . . . and found his pull yet stronger than the Silmaril's might.  
  
  
  
**Anchor**  
  
There were times when her husband was slow to remember her name, to remember their son's name, even. She watched as awareness blinked into Tuor's eyes - now with the familiar tightness in his gaze to follow. After such moments, he ever held onto her as if she were his anchor, and Idril let him, feeling a same desperate need deep within her own heart.  
  
“Tell me of the West again, beloved?” he murmured, closing his eyes to the drum of her heartbeat and the cadence of the waves.  
  
And Idril spoke in hesitant whispers, letting the Sea take her tales as a promise.  
  
  
  
**Tide**  
  
Grey sails chased the horizon, and Eärendil stared from the craggy shore for longer than his eyes could see, waiting for the moment when he could feel his parents no more.  
  
Elwing stood by his side, loathing the vulnerable openness she often felt by the Sea, but ignoring it for her husband's sake - for she understood what it was like to be left behind, and though it was not death parting them, mortality's shadow stood between them, and there was a pain in such sunderings.  
  
He did not speak; and she leaned her head against his shoulder as they lingered with the tide.  
  
  
  
**Gods**  
  
Morgoth was restless in the North, and refugees continued to pour into Sirion.  
  
“How long can we continue to fight?” Voronwë passionately addressed their council. “Time is it for they who unleashed this foe to chain him again - or do they truly revile their Father's creation so?”  
  
“Yet, you, more so than most, know the Valar's wrath for seeking them when they wish not to be found,” Egalmoth returned. “It's foolishness!”  
  
Eärendil merely met Galadriel's eyes in silence as he traced his hand over the sketch of a great ship, feeling a cord seemingly tied about his soul . . . and tugging.  
  
  
  
**Parent**  
  
“She is beautiful, is she not?” Eärendil fawned as a father over a newborn babe.  
  
The _Vingilot_ was beautiful, yet Elwing frowned at the ship that would carry her husband away, feeling her stomach sickly turn – a now familiar warning sign, with her stress for Eärendil's impending departure at its high-point.  
  
_Why is his leaving affecting me so?_ she wondered as she excused herself - only making it to the docks before retching her breakfast into the sea. She gathered her composure, determined to be strong until he was gone, unwilling as she was to let her grief interfere with what hope their people had left.  
  
  
  
**Master**  
  
It was not stress – nor Oropher giving in and poisoning her – that affected her so, but rather the blood of Men interfering with their ability to _cho_ _o_ _se_ the gift of a child.  
  
_Not now_ , was all that Elwing could think after Galadriel informed her of her impending motherhood - _to two_ , only able to weep for what should have been happiness and joy. She seemingly held her children as stones, hating every aspect of pregnancy as she was denied mastery of her body – suffering through nausea and pains and bedridden days aplenty without _him_ there, constant and comforting, by her side.  
  
  
  
**Salt**  
  
She often found it difficult to touch the fledgling spirits she carried - just as Eärendil too was a hazy presence in her soul, leaving her feeling more lost and alone than ever. He'd never favored his elven heritage, which made it difficult for her to reach out to him when her labor overtook her, lost as she was to the ancient struggle for _life_ , and wanting desperately for his hand to hold.  
  
Even so, Elwing asked for the windows to be opened, and at the familiar smell of sea-salt on the air, she dug in for the courage to bring her children into the world.  
  
  
  
**Down**  
  
Eärendil returned to Sirion a year later, heart-sore and weary for his quest.  
  
But the voices that welcomed him were shadowed with words unspoken, and he made his way to his wife's rooms with a strange sense of apprehension. At first, he blinked against the blinding light of the Silmaril Elwing wore, before looking down and realizing . . .  
  
A hazy sort of awareness awakened within his soul, even as his sons – _his_ _sons_ \- blinked up at him without recognition. Understanding brought both grief and wonder, and Eärendil knelt on legs that would suddenly not support him to hold his children for the first.  
  
  
  
**Up**  
  
Some days were good days. On those days she could put both the Silmaril and her crown aside and be mother enough for the lack of a father. She could play with Elros in the sea-surf, and watch as Círdan explained ship-mechanics to him; just as she could listen as Elrond repeated Pengolodh's tales, or stand still as he watched Galadriel and her fey-crafts for hours on end. She could hold her sons' hands while Celeborn walked them through the birch-wood and introduced them to the souls of the trees. On those days she could laugh and love and _live._  
  
And yet . . .  
  
  
  
**Consume**  
  
Some days, their mother was not their mother.  
  
They were playing pirates with Annael, and it was up to Elros to find a trinket to stand as their treasure. It was just a pretty stone, he'd thought - he did not understand why Elwing suddenly appeared, her eyes wild and her spirit's light lashing out, nearly stinging his skin. He was stunned to be pushed to the floor and the Silmaril snatched from his hands.  
  
“You do not take this; you do not ever touch this!” the creature who consumed his mother snarled, hunched protectively over the jewel, and slowly, Elros backed away.  
  
  
  
**Harbor**  
  
The _Vingilot_ was put to harbor but rarely, and his sons grew in leaps and bounds before his eyes.  
  
But the sea beckoned, and Eärendil was honor-bound to answer. His heart was heavy as he returned to his cabin, tilting his head to hear a vague muttering from underneath the bed - one of his sons, quieting the other.  
  
_Stole-aways_ , he thought with a fond sigh, before kneeling down to expose their hiding place. Soon his task would be complete, and he could be a proper father, he tried to assure himself, and yet . . .  
  
Once the Straight Road was found . . . could it be walked back again?  
  
  
  
**Magic**  
  
In his days, Círdan's eyes had seen many things, and the halls of his memory were long and wide. Yet, Elros already held a cherished place therein as the old shipwright took the child sailing in the bay. He instinctively grasped the rules of ship-craft, and his heart was all sea-brine and ocean-foam, much as his father's – his grandfather's – had been.  
  
“I think that this is what magic is,” Elros sighed as he learned to fold the sails at the day's end. “Someday,” he said confidently, “Adar will have to take me with him, when he sees how much I've learned.”  
  
  
  
**Witch**  
  
Oftentimes, Galadriel had a visitor when she worked her arts.  
  
While Elwing had inherited Thingol's forest-soul, she had been dismayed when few of her grandmother's powers of enchantments passed to her. Now, watching her son, Galadriel was not reminded of Lúthien, but of Melian with the boy's quiet perceptiveness and uncanny insights into the Song.  
  
Yet, sometimes, such a gift was a double-edged sword, as when Elrond drew up the figure of a black cloud in the North, time and time again.  
  
“I have seen it too,” Galadriel whispered, and dipped her hand into the water to start anew.  
  
  
  
**Sapling**  
  
Sometimes, Elrond had queer, strange dreams. Elros knew this, and so, he calmly nudged his shoulder to awaken him. He did not bother fetching their mother; instead he crawled into bed beside his twin, and took his hand.  
  
“Your dreams are growing stronger,” Elros whispered. “What did you see this time?”  
  
Elrond's blink was more a wince, and he struggled to find his voice. “Fire . . . on the shore and in her hands and atop his head . . . and the Sea will put it out.” His last words were muttered, “The Sea will take everything . . . always.”  
  
Elros exhaled, and held his brother's hand tighter.  
  
  
  
**Undertow**  
  
The letter was familiar with its precision and elegance, just as its demands were.  
  
Galadriel exhaled as she read Maedhros' ultimatum, her eyes calmly flickering to Elwing, who clutched a hand about the Nauglamír as she paced. “The _arrogance_ ,” she scathed aloud, “that after so much _blood_ . . .”  
  
“Finwë's blood was spilled first on the gem,” Galadriel spoke hollowly, feeling as Fëanor's Oath moved as an undertow none could swim against . . . for there was no clear path before them, and each possible decision would bear fruit for ill. “That is all they will be able to see until their vow is fulfilled.”  
  
  
  
**Flame**  
  
He did not know how the fire started, only that the Fëanorians came as a storm, and now flames licked at the white walls as elven steel crossed elven steel, while around him . . .  
  
Egalmoth did not survive Gondolin to see his people slaughtered over a _gem_ , no matter how holy. When Oropher argued that they fight, and Elwing agreed - sending out for Gil-galad's aid, which would come too late - he had known what next would come. Yet, now . . .  
  
He stood before the entrance of Elwing's tower, determined that none would threaten his Lady – or Turgon's heirs - while he was alive to prevent it.  
  
  
  
**Branches**  
  
He had been denied holding a sword in defense of his kin when Doriath fell, instead hurrying Elwing to safety and reeling from the fact that Nimloth and her sons fled not beside him.  
  
Now, Celeborn remembered the icy branches of the beech-trees, he could hear the snow crack underfoot as he struck and spun and parried, and yet -  
  
\- any sort of satisfaction he'd first thought to gain was lacking as the melee clashed around him. He looked down at the two identical faces he'd felled – one through a great struggle and the other merely _giving up_ , and thought -  
  
  
  
**Holy**  
  
The Silmaril blazed as she held it over the waves crashing against the cliff-face, far below. A fey satisfaction filled her to see the horror and desperation Maedhros and Maglor felt - hoping that they then knew but a _fraction_ of the pains they'd inflicted upon others.  
  
Elwing burned with the Silmaril's holy light; it shone through her bones and set her eyes aflame. She could not feel the pulse of her own spirit, only the Silmaril's heartbeat, and she finally understood . . .  
  
_. . . Dior holding the gem tight, fire in his eyes, and -_  
  
\- she turned, and surrendered her soul to the Sea.  
  
  
  
**Circle**  
  
_She left us!_  
  
The wail from Elros' spirit lanced through Elrond's psyche. He blinked, already overwhelmed from feeling the struggles of the warring and the dying, along with the white-hot burn of their mother's soul, and he could not help Elros through his pains when they needed to be silent – for the two Fëanorians were still there, _the elf with fire atop his head_ , and -  
  
_\- she left us, she left us, she left us,_ consumed Elros, and Elrond could not keep him from stumbling forth in time to see a great white bird rise from the water, a star at her throat.  
  
  
  
**Ash**  
  
Ash fell like snow as Galadriel made her way through the ruined quays. She felt bile rise in her throat, torn between pain and a deep, resentful anger, remembering long ago days in Aman, and all that was left of those familial bonds now.  
  
With Elwing gone and no sign of the children, Galadriel's heart hammered as she followed her now wispy connection to her husband. She found Celeborn in the rubble next to the Ambarussa, his body broken, but stubbornly refusing Mandos' call. Inhaling a shaky breath, she knelt, steeling herself to be a strength for those who survived, once again.  
  
  
  
**Vineyard**  
  
"Sometimes, there is only one answer to our immortal days."  
  
A skin of wine was placed down before him - not just a glass. Such, Celeborn thought, was needed after their unsuccessful parley - which his friend knew.  
  
"They are of Thingol's line," Thranduil said grimly. "Forests grow back stronger after fire; they will not break in the Fëanorians' care."  
  
"Yet, will the Sindar ever bow their heads to Thingol's heirs after such a childhood?" Celeborn took a long swallow of wine. "It is not solely their kin they have lost, but their birthright."  
  
"It is then fortunate," Thranduil sighed, "that the children are not merely Sindar."  
  
  
  
**Ancient**  
  
He felt old in his bones, ancient and worn down with many days. Though Balar welcomed Sirion's survivors, Celeborn felt as a tree with no roots – dispossessed as so many were, with Morgoth's conquest of the land seemingly complete. With years having passed without sign or word from Eärendil (years in which the twins grew, far from their true kin – that thought was still enough to cripple him) their plight seemed ill indeed.  
  
Yet, one night, a star rose where no star was before. He stared, and Galadriel inhaled a deep breath before whispering, “Perhaps, this once, our prayers have been heard.”  



	91. "we have drank each other thirsty"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Dance_
> 
> Because it has been too long. ;) Really, this is just my excuse to write Haleth meeting the rest of Caranthir's family, while taking the convenient moment to foreshadow some less than happy things in their road ahead - unfortunately. :( 
> 
> That said, this chapter will only make sense if you've read the rest of my Caranthir/Haleth plot arch in chapters 10, 31, 34, 52, 53, 60, 64, and 79.

**Dance**  
  
Their third spring together, Caranthir was not able to return to Estolad as quickly as he would have liked.  
  
To his consternation, Maglor and Maedhros lingered beyond the winter season, and called a great many of their allies to gather together at Lake Helevorn following the spring thaw. The location of Mount Renir was central enough to receive the Elves of the River-lands who would answer their call, as well as those few Finrod was able to coax from the Sindar of Nargothrond (even if his suggestion of meeting in peace, with the good of all in mind, fell unhearing on Thingol's ears), all the while being accessible enough to a good part of the Leaguer in the North. Only Fingon and his folk had a long way to travel in the name of King Fingolfin, and yet, Fingon was often making the long journey between his and Maedhros' places on the siege-line, and his care for the distance he had to travel was not one any of them worried for.  
  
Caring not for the insult that would be taken for their decision, Celegorm and Curufin refused to move from Himlad for disdain of the Sindar who would be in attendance – and, beyond the Grey-folk, they had little care for the few great Men of Dorthonion and Dor-Lómin who would be travelling with Finrod and Fingon, no doubt. While the recent news of Aredhel's murder, and the solved mystery of her long disappearance, had been as a blow to them all – even Caranthir had held the letter from Fingolfin in his hand, and felt the hot prick of tears behind his eyes when he remembered the fierce white light of her soul with fondness and regret for such a _waste_ \- Maedhros was in a rare rage over the obstinacy of his brothers for their placing the blame for _one_ of Thingol's lords on the race as a _whole._ Celebrimbor looked truly awkward and miserable for having to relay the words of his father and uncle when he came to stand in their stead, and his disposition did not all improve in the face of Maedhros' anger.  
  
Seeing so, Caranthir dutifully swallowed away his own wish to be gone – for, what was one less son of Fëanor when there was a surplus to see to such a gathering? Truly, his missing would only appease their Sindarin visitors more -  
  
“ - or slight them, with having the lord of this keep absent when they finally find it within themselves to swallow old hatreds and visit with hands extended in friendship,” Maglor was the one to sternly point out. “Your mortal will keep for a few weeks more, Carnë. She well knows the burden of leadership, and is fully aware of the responsibilities you owe your people; you will not turn your duty aside now.”  
  
Even so, Maglor's eyes softened when he bowed his head in acceptance, and his brother's hand on his shoulder was as supportive as the brush of his spirit across his own – understanding and sympathizing in a way that few others truly could. And yet . . .  
  
. . . the fact remained that he was so aware of time now; _time_ , and their lack thereof. He felt every passing hour . . . every moving day . . . every swiftly flowing _year_ , as if they were sands in an hourglass, and someday . . .  
  
If Caranthir was more reticent than usual with his guests, no one thought the better of it – for such was a reputation he'd more than earned over the centuries, and he did not bother to remedy others' perception of him now. Even so, he allowed Fingon to turn his bow in greeting aside in favor of embracing him outright – ever astonished as he was that Endórë and their family's trials therein had yet to vanquish the cheer and warmth from his cousin's spirit. When Fingon drew back, Caranthir gave his sympathies for Aredhel with true regret and mourning in his voice. Fingon's second of clouded eyes was the only grief he showed before he hid his expression in another embrace, and then the moment passed.  
  
This time, Caranthir did not need Maglor's prodding to incline his head to Finrod. He civilly welcomed Angrod when the fierce, golden lord glowered at him; and even exchanged a few words with Aegnor when he moved to talk in pleasantries all the more so to cover up his brother's rudeness. All the while, Finrod watched him in silence - for while Caranthir cared not for Eldalótë's affections any more, nor resented the man she chose over him when he instead knew such a _relief_ for her decision – such was something he could certainly not say aloud to her husband and his kin. As a result, there was curiosity in Finrod's eyes for his manners - no matter how strained they were – and even though he ducked his own eyes away before Finrod could look, and _see_ , he did not think that he did so fast enough.  
  
With more curiosity did he receive the Bëorians from Dorthonion, amongst them being Chieftain Boromir and his children – his young son Bregor and his _very_ young daughter Andreth - with true interest and a host's hospitable graciousness. This too did Finrod watch, and observe, but never spoke a word of outright. From Dor-Lómin he had the pleasure of meeting Hathol Magor's son, grandson of Marach, along with his very young son Hador, who watched all around him with a solemn intensity to his cool blue eyes. The children were a bright spot amongst the gathering for most of the Elves therein, and Caranthir felt an unexpected pang of missing for Haldan, wondering how much the boy had grown in the winter he had been away.  
  
It was not until the third day of their gathering that he felt a strange sort of brightness flush across his spirit. Such was as he usually felt when he crested the hills of Estolad, drinking in the feeling of his bond with Haleth turning open and full once more, and, finally, he understood . . .  
  
When he made his way to the main gate to find Haleth herself arguing with his guards about her identity - fiercely berating the elvish memories that forgot her time dwelling there just four years ago, he teetered between astonishment for her presence, amusement for her ire, and a hungry relief for her being so _near_ , content as he was to take her in and look his fill for that stolen moment. As it ever did, the season they had spent apart had weighed upon him, and even without knowing the hows or whys of her being there, his spirit seemed to lighten in her presence. His body felt loose and his heart buoyant; he could not keep his smile from his face, no matter who was there in the rather bustling courtyard to look upon him and take notice of.  
  
But their bond worked two ways, and only a moment passed before Haleth paused in her speech and tilted her head to the side, and for her doing so . . .  
  
Caranthir finally stepped out from the shadows thrown by the arches and columns circling the courtyard, and assured his bewildered guards that she was indeed who she said she was - and was most welcome in his halls, at that. Haleth gave a deep sigh – exhaling crossly, it would first seem, but he alone knew that the motion was more as the banking of a fire. She was weary – exhausted, even – as a warrior at a battle's end, finally understanding that they could partake of rest and sanctuary. He immediately reached out to buoy her spirit with his – feeling a matching peace settle in his bones as his fëa reached out to eagerly drink her in, and yet -  
  
“There were rumors of more of our people crossing the mountains near Thargelion, from Hildórien beyond. We thought to welcome them,” Haleth gave her reasons for showing up at his door – as if needing to explain her presence further. Even so, he saw the way that she glanced around as she spoke, and knew that her words were not entirely for him. Her cheeks were flushed with a high red colour as she continued, “If there was anyone from the East, it was only scouts, or a stray traveler or two; my men and I found no one, and rather than immediately continuing back on to Estolad, I thought to take up your previous offer of hospitality to any of me or mine who should ever need it.”  
  
Though she spoke as one leader addressing another, he was close enough to see where the fingers of her left hand tapped against the pommel of her sword, while her right hand fiddled absently with the braided leather of her skirt. Softly, she gave out a huff of breath – and he felt the whisper of annoyance from her mind, cross as she was for knowing that she had given into the urge – the _need_ – to stop and see him where and when she could.  
  
“You need not explain yourself to me,” Caranthir assured her, not bothering to speak to her as an equal only in name and power. He merely kept his voice low so that no one else would overhear. “I am all too happy to see you, and am sorry that you found yourself so neglected in the first place. If I could, this is a duty that I would have gladly put aside for another time.”  
  
Though his words were whispered, they were still in the middle of the crowded courtyard, in full view of anyone who would care to look. They drew a few odd stares and whispers from passerby – especially from the Noldor who were not Fëanorian sworn, and already familiar with his bond with the Haladin. For seeing so, Haleth subtly took her wedding band from her first finger of her right hand, to move it to her left hand in the human custom, clearly self-conscious of the looks and the meanings behind them. Caranthir was not so quick to hide her away, however – any one of his people needed only look him in the eyes to know of his wedded state, and though it was tactfully not mentioned in polite society for his not announcing his match publicly, the whispers were still there, regardless. They were, he thought, some of the kinder whispers spoken about his family, and they had never particularly bothered him. For Haleth, however . . .  
  
“I did not realize that you were playing the host this day,” Haleth finally said, recognizing the different banners flying in the yard, along with the various crests and colors worn by those coming to and fro.  
  
“It would have to be a matter such as this to keep me from Estolad,” Caranthir felt his mouth press into a thin line to say, still annoyed by the delay as he was. But it was hard to hold onto his frustration when she was _there_ , standing real before him; for that moment, all was right in the world.  
  
He watched her cheeks flush, causing the freckles dusting her skin to jump out in stark contrast. “My mind knew so,” she looked down to mutter quietly. “Logically I understood that you were merely delayed, and yet . . .”  
  
Her hand tightened over the pommel of her sword, and he felt the wave of uncertainty that had plagued her when he did not immediately return with the dawn of the spring – wondering if he had tired of her, or lost interest for the clear mortality that touched her body all the more so with each passing year. In reply, he exhaled, hurt for her hurt, as well as stung by her moment's lack of faith, before telling himself that such was not due to her view of _him_ , but rather, the eyes through which she viewed _herself_.  
  
Caranthir frowned, his spirits slightly dimmer than when he first saw her, and yet, he was determined to assuage her fears however and how often as was needed. His spirit's bond with her would allow nothing less, and so, without words, he let her see the joy and completion he had felt when he first understood that she was there. He let her see the way he had not been able to look anywhere else, still mesmerized as he was by the fire of her spirit. What she viewed as her fleeing youth was inconsequential to his eyes when he only saw a strong body, hard and soft in all the right places, and a face more fair to him than even Varda's unearthly countenance of celestial beauty - for such was uniquely _her_ , and if their setting was more private . . .  
  
Perhaps too much, he enjoyed the way her blush deepened, even though his sharing such thoughts was as a double-edged blade when he could feel _her_ regard in return, regarding him in as one famished, and he had to fight to keep his voice level as he said – louder, so that any listening could clearly hear, “I am glad that you took up the offer of my hospitality, my lady. Morgoth is a threat that haunts your people's steps, as well as our own. You are more than welcome here, for as long as these talks carry on, and I hope to see you dine with us this evening. The Haladin are a welcome addition to our council.”  
  
Haleth drew in a breath, composing herself, and yet, any reply she had to make was interrupted by Caranthir feeling a brush of awareness against his fëa. He was being summoned.  
  
Sighing, he waved a hand, and had Haleth and her men attended to and given the opportunity to rest from their travels, though he repeated his invitation to have them to feast in the Great Hall that evening. He had thought to steal away from his duties to see Haleth before that, but his hands were quite tied as a host, and he found not a moment to spare – hardly to tend to himself, even. He breathed in and out with his frustration throughout the day lest he take out his ire where it was not deserved - from the suddenly inept men manning the kitchens, to Maglor, who pulled him aside from saving the pastries to ask if the rumors were true, and _she_ was there. His elder brother's sad taste for gossip, however, was ignored in favor of the burning cream sauce, and Caranthir avoided Maglor well enough after that.  
  
Much to his annoyance, he did not see Haleth again until that evening's meal, and he found it difficult to keep his gaze on those he was seated next to, as proper civility demanded. The laws of etiquette had him seated next to the high-princes of the Noldor, and he had to sneak glances over the rim of his goblet of wine to look much further down the table to where Haleth was seated next to Chieftain Boromir's family. She was not meeting any of the curious elven gazes turned her way, but rather, kept most of her attention on little Andreth, who looked like a doll all dressed up to feast with her large brown eyes wide and awe-struck as she looked around her. Caranthir felt a pain twist at his side - shared from her spirit, knowing that in a deep, secret place within Haleth's mind, if she was ever a mother, she wanted -  
  
\- but that was the possibility of another life, not this one, and Caranthir frowned into his wine, inordinately annoyed when Fingon laughed outright at one of his own jokes. Fingon always had an easy, cheerful demeanor – and his gaiety turned all the more so whenever Maedhros was too severe for his own good . . . as he was now, Caranthir understood, looking up to see that his brother's eyes were not on Fingon, but rather . . . Maedhros looked back and forth between he and Haleth, and Caranthir could not tell what his thoughts were. He'd always held an awe and respect for his eldest sibling, whom he saw almost as another parent, rather than a confident and boon-companion, and that distance had only grown since Thangorodrim. Maedhros had changed since Aman, changed into something fierce and fey, as if his spirit was lashed to his body by only the barest of strands, and all too often their father's fire was a living thing in his gaze as he dedicated himself to his self-appointed task of seeing Morgoth rid from the land . . . and not merely for sake of their Oath. Now . . .  
  
But Maedhros blinked, and turned from carefully observing Haleth in favor of counseling Fingon away from the wine – and, for a moment, everything was then as it once was, all of those centuries ago.  
  
After the courses were concluded, a minstrel struck up a chord, and many left the long table behind for dancing. Caranthir, grateful for the social divisions of the seating breaking up, stood with the intention of seeking out Haleth, but he was distracted by the Laiquendi lords from the River-lands, and he could not politely turn them aside – especially when the whole point of their gathering together was to convince every sword possible to pledge to their fight. With a sigh, he existed as a prince of the Noldor and gracious host for much of the evening, only able to follow Haleth with his eyes, whenever he could.  
  
Out of comfort, she stayed near to the men-folk gathered, he noticed. She laughed and drank with Boromir, and her eyes turned alight as she debated the ways of horsemanship and steel with Hathol. She seemed to be enjoying herself, he thought, and it was not until Finrod made his way over to the Men that he felt any sort of unease about her spirit. Finrod, who - beyond collecting Men as others would amass specimens of exotic insects or rare pelts, Caranthir had more than once thought unkindly - wanted to subtly inquire, and through his inquiring deduce . . .  
  
_Curious, nosy, t_ _hr_ _ice-cursed Orc-son_ , Caranthir silently bristled. He, however, was unable to politely extract himself from his own conversation in order to rescue her – especially when his doing so would only confirm Finrod's suspicious, the Void take him for that – and he was more than grateful when he saw Maglor move to politely intercept, saying that he had noticed Haleth most of the evening, and had long been gathering the courage to ask for a dance. His brother's smooth manners and gentle words ever had him stitching over many an awkward situation with no harm done or offense taken, and Caranthir watched as Haleth put her hand within his brother's own with a new sort of trepidation rising within her. That, Caranthir could feel as a sudden wave washing over his own spirit.  
  
But Maglor's curiosity was touched with warmth and fond regard, and Haleth only needed one dance to relax in his presence. By the second dance, she was more worried about mastering the steps of the elvish reel – which was not at all designed with mortal feet in mind – than she was for impressing his brother. By the end of their third set together, Caranthir was relieved when he felt Haleth relax enough to speak with unthinking sarcasm when Maglor applauded her progress – to which he felt his brother's flare of humor and unexpected delight in reply. The sight warmed him, and after that dance, Haleth caught his eye, and tucked away a small, quiet smile before turning to where Andreth and Hador had sought her out, requesting stories about the Siege of Thargelion with awe shaping their bright, childish voices.  
  
Caranthir felt a pang of memory pierce her spirit for her fallen father and brother, but she covered it well to indulge the children – who carefully sat down with plates of pastry and mugs holding their allotment of hot, spiced wine for the night, and began her tale. Before long, she had gathered more than just the children as her eager listeners, and Caranthir ignored Angrod's snorting outright when she came to describe the less than savory moments in his first dealing with her. His own ire for the other man's amusement, however, was soothed by Haleth's warmth and fondness for the memory - for, had he not challenged her so, and drawn her own steel in return . . .  
  
He smiled, and was quite lost to the conversation of his own companions for some time.  
  
The evening went on, and slowly, his guests filed away and turned in for the night – all but for he, who was tied first by one task and then another. By the time he returned to his rooms, there was little time left until the dawn, and he scowled as he put his circlet and heavy robes aside for the night. His frustration only increased when he realized that his bed was not empty – Haleth had clearly tried waiting for him, only to give in to the call of sleep, and Caranthir ran a hand through his hair, hating that he had not been there for her.  
  
But what sleep he was allowed that night was made peaceful with her by his side, and he slept better than he had since leaving Estolad, all those months ago.  
  
By the time he rose – later than was his wont, which was not surprising with the lack of sleep he'd been forcing his body to work through as of late – Haleth was already gone, and he frowned at her empty half of the bed, feeling a missing for a place he'd long been used to having empty, just that quickly.  
  
Caranthir did not break his fast with the rest of his guests – he had time for tea, and was just reaching for bread and butter when there was a knock at the door, summoning him, and his day began in earnest.  
  
It was not until after the noon hour when he was able to wrestle away a moment for himself. As soon as he did, he followed his bond with Haleth, concerned when he was able to feel frustration pouring off of her in nearly tangible waves, causing a surge of agitation to fill him in response. He found her in one of the dining halls – one more commonly used when his people were absent of guests, with a grand arched ceiling and a sweeping view of the mountains beyond them. Even though the room was more informal than the Great Hall, it was still larger and more ornate than the mead hall where the Haladin gathered to conduct their affairs of state and attend weddings and their seasonal festivals, and the empty room now seemed to swallow her as she hummed and put herself through the same steps over and over again . . . for which it took him a moment to recognize the dance from the night before. What was a thoughtless thing to him – a simple set of steps, taught to most Elves during childhood – was a formidable task for Haleth, for her mortal limbs did not move as seamlessly as an elven stride, and the pattern looked comparably ungainly and choppy on her. Such, he thought, was the source of her frustration.  
  
“What is this?” he announced his presence by asking aloud.  
  
Haleth spared him a glance before looking down, her face fixed into a fierce glower. He could feel her temper shimmer about her like a curtain, and knew – even though such was not directed at him – that he'd best step with caution. He took a moment to glean the source of her ire from the forefront of her mind – he did not have to dig deep, at all - seeing where she had hated how out of place she had felt the night before. She was now determined to fit in in even the smallest of ways, for which she now attempted to learn -  
  
“I hate it when you do that,” Haleth finally said, pressing a hand to her temples.  
  
“Yet, it does speed up what would have been a long and uncomfortable conversation, otherwise – which would have ended with one or both of us in worse humors than when we began,” Caranthir pointed out.  
  
Haleth sighed, and shot him a look – a not entirely _kind_ one - but he could see where her amusement betrayed her in the crinkling of her gaze.  
  
Wordlessly, Caranthir stepped forth and took her right hand in his own. He looked for her to protest, but when she did not, he led her through the first spin, only pausing to remark, “The dance may flow better if you cease treating each step as if you are marching into battle.”  
  
“But am I not?” Haleth returned, and her braid spun out behind her as her momentum carried her back to him. Even if she felt awkward and graceless – and the height difference between them was certainly not an optimal match for such things – he enjoyed the way she fit against him, and her body moved well with his own. Though she did not have the fey grace of most of the elven-women he knew, she did have a beauty in motion that was all her own, and he appreciated that now – even if she only looked at herself and saw where she was wanting. "Every step I take here is a battle, it seems, and I am not sure whether or not I am advancing or retreating."  
  
“Have any caused you reason for complaint?” Caranthir's voice was a low rumble of sound, and she looked up at him, frowning as she considered her reply.  
  
“No,” she answered once, and then, _“no,”_ she said again in a more convincing tone. “It is not anything your kin have done – it is only in my mind that I am so ill at ease. It is . . . it is strange for me; your folk are either merry and gay, like children – and as endlessly curious as children, at that. I had to duck twice in the halls to avoid Lord Finrod, though I know he means well. It is only my mood that does not appreciate such questions . . . as if me and mine are an oddity to be studied and examined. And yet . . . if it is not bright cheer and laughter, it is . . . “ she shook her head and rubbed at her eyes, as if fighting away a pain from her temples.  
  
“What happened to make your brother like that?” her eyes suddenly sharpened to say, and he was taken aback by the force of her question.  
  
“Maglor?” Caranthir asked, knowing what she tried to say, and yet ill to speak of it himself. “Tyelko likes to say that he was dropped at birth, and though I love him, at times I do believe -”  
  
“ - you know that is not what I meant,” Haleth chided. She looked down, and their not-quite-a-dance slowed as she considered a memory, allowing him to glance into her mind to see:  
  
_Maedhros, his eyes more silver than grey as he stopped her in the hall. Though she told herself not to, she could not help but stare at the upraised marks left over what she could see of his skin, wondering how he could stand before her after such a clearly told tale of wrath and ruin. When her eyes fell down to the leather brace he wore over the stub of his right hand, her gaze shot back up to his eyes, but that was no better – for there was_ something _within them; something as a storm or an ocean tide, and though she understood the meaning of_ fey _from her place within his own mind, this was different, this was . . ._  
  
“He stopped to thank me for your happiness,” Haleth revealed. “And yet . . .”  
  
“He . . ." Caranthir swallowed and had to start again, "perhaps, Artanis is now the only one of our family more fey than my brother. Sometimes, he can forget to pull back when speaking to one of mortal days.”  
  
His words caused her expression to color, and at feeling the heaviness of her spirit, he knew that he had pressed on what had been a wound to her thoughts, the same as pushing a finger into a bruise. He sighed, and their dance slowed so that they were both merely standing, and staring at each other.  
  
“He wasn't always that way. I . . . I told you about Thangorodrim,” Caranthir said softly, not caring to speak about those days, even in passing – with the forceful inferno of their father's guiding light suddenly _gone_ , and Maedhros lost while they could do nothing to save him . . . though Fingon soon proved that reasoning to be terribly wrong. His so easily rescuing their brother after they had stood by and did _nothing_ was still such a shame that Caranthir could not bring himself to speak about – not even with Maglor, though he shared that thought with Haleth now. “He has not been the same since then,” was all he could finish by saying, unsure what words there were to give such a tale a voice.  
  
“I have stepped into the middle of a bard's tale,” finally, Haleth exhaled after a long moment, reaching up to run a hand through the disheveled strands of her braid. “I walk through myth and legend, to be apart of your tales for but a blinking . . .”  
  
His reaction to her words was as a physical pain; he grimaced, and frowned for the truth of her words, even so.  
  
“Mankind exists for merely moments in the face of your days,” Haleth continued to say, her voice muttered and far away. Even so, he still held her one hand in his own, and he felt the way her fingers flexed, holding onto him tightly. “Perhaps the One knew what he was doing when he created us far and apart; perhaps it was meant to stay that way, for, here - "  
  
“ - here, you will _always_ have a place,” Caranthir's voice was fierce as he swore.  
  
“Do I?” Haleth asked, raising a brow and peering into his eyes. “Do you ever feel as if I do not belong in your life? I fit poorly within your world, and though I love the place you have carved into mine, it is a _forced_ fit, even so . . . Even the simplest of your reels is not made for mortal feet to dance; our bodies simply aren't equipped for it. And if not that, then - ”  
  
“ - I hate to disagree with you, but until you have seen Finrod dance -”  
  
“ - Carnistir,” Haleth sighed, annoyed by his returning her concerns with humor, “are you listening to me?”  
  
“I am,” he confirmed, his jaw fixing into a stern line with his words, “and I shall indulge such foolishness only with foolishness in return. I feel as if I have said this many times, and I will repeat it as many times as needed: _you_ are my joy in this life, for how ever long I may call that joy my own.”  
  
“You have to say that, you have no other choice – not now,” even so, Haleth sounded only weary as she forced herself to quip.  
  
“Now who is speaking foolishness?” Caranthir returned. When she looked down, he reached over to tilt up her chin and meet her eyes. His thumb gently ran over the curve of her cheekbone, and he hated that there was the wet shine of tears within her eyes.  
  
“I am sorry,” Haleth mumbled. “I am feeling particularly maudlin today, and I fear that I have tried to drag you down with me. I should not do so - especially not here, when I know that you have many things weighing upon your mind. The years we have to us are short, and I do not want you to ever look back, and remember . . .”  
  
Though normally thoughts of their time together ending were those he simply did not think about – for he yet _could not_ – there were other times when that was all he could focus on. He understood the heaviness of her thoughts, and though normally they were reasonably successful with keeping their spirits above water, there were days that were deep and black, and now . . .  
  
He leaned forward to wrap his arms around her, pulling her tight against his body as he ran a comforting hand up and down her back. The top of her head only came up to the hollow of his throat, and she turned her cheek so that it pressed against his heart. Instead of standing tall on her own, she returned the embrace; she clung to him until her fingertips were white from where they pressed into his skin, and her heartbeat hammered as a child afraid of the night. She often said that their parting would be hardest on him, for he would have to live on without her, with only memories to sustain him, and yet . . . _I do not want to pass through a veil that has not of you upon the other side_ , he heard her spirit sigh before she could shield the thought from him. He felt a rise of fey feeling within him, knowing that if he could, he would challenge the Powers for this too, the right to cling to her, to keep this as his own . . .  
  
_What was the One thinking?_ he thought then, but not as she had either. _To place this great longing, this great love within me, and then allow us but a blinking with that bond? I do not understand; I_ _can_ _not_ accept -  
  
But the moment was ruined by a soft voice speaking from the door, first clearing his throat, as if he had been lingering for some time, and only just announced his presence – regretfully so, Caranthir knew when he felt Maglor's spirit brush his own.  
  
“Carnë,” his brother apologized, “Our council is about to meet.”  
  
Caranthir stepped back from Haleth so that there was a breath of space between their bodies, shielding her as she reached up to wipe at her eyes – knowing that she wouldn't want anyone else to see her moment of self-perceived weakness. The physical proof of her grief did not help the already fey cast of his spirit in the slightest, however, and Haleth knew that. She summoned a shaky smile – for his sake, rather than her own, and said, “Go on, you have duties to attend to. I will be waiting for you.”  
  
He caught the flickering to her words, and he could not help but ask, “Here?” in a voice that was smaller than he first would have liked it to be.  
  
The corners of her mouth were sad when she shook her head. “Not here,” she whispered. “My men are anxious to return to Estolad, and I . . .” _I cannot stay here,_ he caught the thought from her mind, _here_ _where all is immortal and fair, and I_ _am constantly reminded_ _. . ._  
  
“I will come when I may,” Caranthir promised after finding his voice, understanding her reasoning, even though he liked it not.  
  
“I know,” Haleth inclined her head, and those words, at least, were firm in their certainty.  
  
Uncaring of their audience, he leaned down and kissed her, cupping her face in his hands and pouring what he could of his love and fierce regard for her into the gesture. She rose on the tips of her toes to return the kiss, and her fingertips dug into the tops of his shoulders to give him better balance. But the moment was done all too quickly, and he stepped back to see her already fixing a carefully bland expression upon her face, so that none could see that she felt anything otherwise.  
  
After a long, silent moment, he turned, and slowly, he left with his brother.  
  
Maglor did not speak until they were well down the corridor. "Are you well, brother?” his voice was low and warm, and Caranthir heard a Singer's note of shared-warmth and healing in the shape of his syllables. He let it seep into his spirit, trying to make that borrowed strength his own.  
  
“No,” Caranthir exhaled honestly, wordlessly thanking his brother for his support and empathy. “But I will be.”  
  
Though he meant to keep his eyes fixed ahead, he turned back once. Haleth was not watching him leave, but rather, her gaze was turned down, clearly lost in thought. For a moment, he stared at her small shadow, nearly swallowed by the maw of the empty room, and blinked, as if trying to memorize her there.  
 


	92. "tale as old as time"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éowyn & Ensemble || Prompt: _Story_
> 
> Because it was high time the White Lady of Rohan had a moment to shine in this collection. Enjoy. ;)

**Story**  
  
When Éowyn Éomund’s daughter was a child of seven summers, she learned of death for the first. On the first day of autumn, her father fell in battle, defending the East-mark against a scourge of Orcs, and at the first touch of winter's cold upon the air . . .  
  
She was not supposed to hear; but the healers had no reason to hide their whispers when they did not know her to be near, and she stood silent and still behind the tapestry, her ears strained and her heart hammering so fiercely that she was certain that it would escape the confines of her chest.  
  
“Lady Théodwyn does not wish to recover,” one of the women said helplessly to the next, “and so she shall not. I have done all I can; the rest is in the princess' hands.”  
  
“If she truly wishes to join _him_ , she shall soon have her wish,” the second woman sighed to reply. “Those poor children; fatherless, and now to be without their mother in the span of a single season? It is a cruel blow, even by the measure of these days.”  
  
Éowyn did not breathe so as not to disturb the drapes, and she did not think that she could if she tried as she turned those words over in her mind, pondering them as their weight settled in deep about her soul. She moved her mouth, but no sound out came; her fingers were small when she curled them together, but they still made a fist.  
  
She did not return to her mother's rooms for some hours, and it was nearly evening when she at last sat down at her mother's bedside – her posture straight as she had been taught, and her chin held so that it was parallel with the floor. She reached over to fix the collar of her mother's dress, knowing that she would have hated it being askew, before arranging her hair more neatly about her pillow. Her small fingertips rested against Théodwyn's brow for a moment, hating that her skin was clammy to the touch, both hot and cold at once. But her mother did not blink; she did not open her eyes, lost as she was to the world she saw in her fevered dreams.  
  
And Éowyn swallowed around her suddenly thick throat, feeling as if she held a stone on the back of her tongue. Even so, she forced her voice to remain steady as she opened her book of tales and started to read them aloud – giving the stories a voice until her throat was dry and her tongue felt thick in her mouth, wanting, _needing_ to give her mother something, _anything_ to latch on to and use as a line to help her return to the realm of the living. She could not fill in the role of husband, she thought almost desperately, but she was her _daughter_ , and to be alone in this world without either her father's strong laughter, his fierce courage and great love . . . or her mother's gentle smiles, her soft counsel and dry wit . . .  
  
“ . . . and in the gardens of Lórien, Míriel the Queen of the Noldor laid down to sleep, and neither the Vala Irmo nor Estë his wife could persuade her to open her eyes again; not for the grief of Finwë her husband or for the needs of Fëanor, the infant son she had given her all to bear - ”  
  
“ - she cannot hear you, you know. It is useless to read to her – especially such tales of fae fancy as those.”  
  
Éowyn blinked, finding her eyes heavy from the strain she had placed upon them as she looked up at the arrival of her brother. Éomer's mouth was a hard line as he stared down at their mother, and she scooted aside to make room for him on the cushion she sat on. For a moment, she thought that he would refuse; he was only four years her elder, but their father's last command of _watch over them while I am gone_ had resonated with her brother, and he had taken to his duty with a fierce and solemn determination. Éowyn did not yet know how to tell him that she wanted her _brother_ , even more than her father returned to her, and was yet relieved when Éomer took the seat she offered him.  
  
“Yet, if there is a chance that she may hear . . .” Éowyn faltered, and could not quite find her voice.  
  
“She hears only father, and she follows him,” Éomer said, and though he forced his voice to be hard, she could see where his words pained him. He held his mouth together in a thin line, and he blinked furiously against the sheen to his gaze, which she found to be silly – for the greatest of griefs required tears to heal, and she would not feel shame to cry before _him_. She reached over and squeezed his hand, and her brother's expression turned open and raw before it closed off again – he willed himself to be strong for _her_ , she knew, and she felt a twist upon her heart for her understanding.  
  
And so, she sat there and made herself a solemn vow. It was weak of her mother, she could not help but think; selfish, even, to exist for the dead, rather than the living. It was _weak_ , and she then decided that she would never be so – she would be no woman waiting upon a man, living her life for a man, and then _dying_ . . . but, rather . . .  
  
Éowyn closed the book, and put it aside, then knowing with all certainty that she would make her own path in life . . . and write her own story.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
When she was a girl of two and ten, she outraced Éothain on his new bay courser with nothing more than her brave and valiant little pony.  
  
Éowyn held her head up high, and laughed to proclaim herself as _Eorl,_ praising her spotted pony as if he were Felaróf, father of the Mearas all the while. The pony tossed his white and brown mane as if he were a great war horse, prancing with his hooves held high – only to nicker in alarm when Éothain reached down from his much taller mount to easily push her from the saddle in her distraction.  
  
She blinked from the unexpected shock of striking the dirt, stunned to have found herself so suddenly reoriented upon the ground, before indignation filled her and she found her feet to answer the laughter of the older boys with a fierce glower of her own.  
  
“Spineless and craven I name you, Éothain Ethelstan's son!” she tilted her head up proudly to accuse. “I would have you face me fair if you found your loss to be so distasteful.”  
  
Yet, to her dismay, her placing a hand on the hilt of her wooden training sword only won a renewed round of laughter from the boys, and Éowyn found her cheeks flush red as Éothain looked to his friends - holding up a hand as if he drew strength from their derision, and then dismounted. He did not draw his own weapon, but rather, came to stand a breath away from her – emphasizing his greater height as his shadow fell down to swallow her.  
  
Yet, Éowyn merely lifted her chin, and stared him in the eye.  
  
“Be careful, my friend,” Éomer, however, did not approve of her treatment – and he only let her hold her own until he judged it to be long enough. “I do believe that she may take you, and I would not trust in fate if she held naked steel in her hand – if your footwork would prove to be anything as your horsemanship, that is.”  
  
The rest of the boys, however, were slow to laugh in reply to her brother's words. They looked uneasily, one to the next, and were only saved from choosing a side by the arrival of Prince Théodred. Immediately, many of the boys bowed their heads in respect, and even Éowyn dipped low in a curtsey – no matter that she viewed her cousin as an older brother, just as she did Éomer, with Théoden his father being the father of her heart, rather than just her uncle. Being twelve summers the senior of Éomer, he was the idol of many a young man's aspirations in the Riddermark, and Théodred, she thought, was well aware of the high esteem the youth held him in – if the twinkling in his eyes as he looked at her, and only her, was anything to tell by.  
  
He looked her up and down, and Théodred only smiled to see her face smeared with dirt and her hair impossibly tangled, wearing a man's breeches and tunic to better allow her to sit astride her horse. He ignored the other boys, and only paused to place a hand on Éomer's shoulder in greeting before standing right before her. “Cousin,” he greeted with warmth and affection in his voice, “I saw your ride from where we practiced with our own mounts, and I had to stop and give my respects. You and your pony made a valiant pair, and thus honored the names of our forefathers.”  
  
“I felt as if I was Eorl riding,” she leaned forward to say – whispering softly, only for him to hear, her voice a bit breathless as she remembered the feeling of the wind whipping back her hair and the _rightness_ she had felt as her pony's hooves thundered upon the ground in swift determination.  
  
“Eorl?” Théodred repeated. “He would be a worthy match, methinks, and yet . . . I was reminded by someone else, though I could not quite put my finger on it at the first, for I saw a reflection of Lagertha the Spearhead in your ride . . . or perhaps it was Lady Freydís the Fearless, or Hervor the Curse-breaker I saw? All are worthy shield-maidens, greatly remembered by the history of our people . . . yet I believe that it is an even greater woman of legend who cast her shadow upon your soul. _Haleth the Hunter_ I name you, and would bid that all here remember that.”  
  
“And who is _she_ , to be so remembered so?” Éothain scoffed to hear. His temper was only worsened by the prince's arrival and clear favor, though Éowyn noticed that the rest of the boys were torn between a matching such scorn . . . and careful, hesitant curiosity.  
  
“She is one of the Three who made up the founding houses of Númenor the Great; and her blood is still to be found in the line of Gondor's Kings,” Théodred revealed in a mild tone of voice, not seeing fit to even glance Éothain's way. Instead, he stared unwaveringly into her eyes, the stormy blue of his gaze holding her own with their intensity. “Through her, Eru saw fit to bless a woman more so than he did most men who led at that time – seeing worth in her _soul_ , no matter the gender of her body. Remember that, and the next time Éowyn coaxes more loyalty from her mount from you, Éothain Ethelstan's son, see only honor in the defeat.”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
As a maid of four and ten, she was dared to walk into the witch-wood of Dwimordene, and bring out one of the golden flowers of _elanor_ that were said to grow within.  
  
The young men of Edoras were going on their first ride beyond the lands of the Riddermark to prove their mettle and the courage of their hearts, and Éowyn had been determined to ride at her brother's side – and with Théodred too fighting for her, Théoden had relented, though not all of the men who rode out quite approved of her presence.  
  
Éothain remained one of those naysayers, even those years later, and so, when he bid that she face the ancient forest of bewitched trees they were camped outside of – with firm instructions not to go within, out of respect for the Lady of the Golden Wood, who was said to be a sorceress of unfathomable power . . .  
  
She would not court the idea of backing down, however, so Éowyn gathered her courage and slipped within the shadows of the forest. Therein, she walked for she knew not how long, feeling as if the ageless trees looked down on her with sleepy, curious eyes. The forest was an odd thing to her, and she felt tight within her skin for being so far away from the endless fields of grass and dramatic hills of her heart's home. She had never before imagined that a forest could grow to be so _massive_ , and within that forest . . .  
  
There was magic here, she could well imagine; it sang in the water, and whispered in the leaves, and when she at last came upon a clearing in the trees, she felt all of her uncertainty and her weariness for wandering fade away when she realized that the wood had a caretaker – a woman, who seemingly wore the sun netted in the golden curtain of her hair, and blinked at her with eyes made of starlight. Éowyn held her breath, knowing that she had found one of the fae-folk, and wondered if she had found the Lady of the Golden Wood herself.  
  
Instinctively, she fell to one knee and bowed her head low in respect, for while she held the blood of kings within her veins, this woman before her, this _being_ . . . what was a daughter of Eorl to a woman of _eternity_? Within her gaze, Éowyn felt as if she could see the vast eddies of time itself wheel and glide, and she blinked at the weight of the woman's centuries as they came to bear upon her own mortal soul. Unexpectedly, Éowyn felt her eyes burn, and her heart seemed nearly weightless in her chest, as if it was being held out and examined in this woman's careful hands . . . yet, strangely enough, she trusted her to do so. She felt no fear; only wonder.  
  
“For what do you journey into these woods, child?” when the woman spoke, her voice was deep and smooth – as if the cord that bound the moon to the tides was then given a sound, and Éowyn held her breath in answer.  
  
“I came for a bloom of the flower _elanor_ , to prove my honor and my bravery to those who would doubt me beyond these eaves,” she started, keeping her head inclined towards the forest floor. “Yet, I have found more than that now, and would simply take my leave with your blessing, if you would allow me.”  
  
The Elf stood from where she had been tending the flowers, and rather than speak immediately in reply, she tilted her head as if considering. She took a step towards her, and then two, and Éowyn noticed that her feet were bare. She made no sound over the forest-floor, and the light of her eyes glittered in time with the whisper of the high branches swaying in the breeze.  
  
“Great are the days stretched before you, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund,” the Lady finally spoke, her voice rich with a lilting power that Éowyn could not quite understand. “If but a bloom of Lórien will grant to you the courage those days shall need, then I shall give it gladly.”  
  
But Éowyn only shook her head, and could not agree. “I have trespassed, selfishly so; and I have nothing to give in return for a bloom of this wood.”  
  
There was no magic in the land beyond, she knew, and she did not wish for even a bit of this realm to wither and die. Her heart was heavy within her chest for merely the thought.  
  
“Yet, your payment shall be a hundredfold the bloom's worth when the appointed day comes, and glad shall more than my own heart be to witness it,” the Elf did not quite agree – speaking as Éowyn could not understand . . . not yet. “And long shall it be before these leaves wither and give way to winter. Return to your kin, young one, and go with my blessing.”  
  
When the Lady gracefully bent to kiss her brow, Éowyn seemingly felt peace and contentment settle over her, and a golden blossom was pressed into the palm of her hand before she had a moment to object to the gift. She looked down at the flower, amazed by the rich intensity of its colour and the silky softness of its petals. When she blinked, however, the Elf-woman was gone, and the clearing was empty.  
  
Éowyn's heart was racing, and she clutched her hand over her prize as she raced through the trees to find her folk again.  
  
It was after nightfall when she reached the boundary of the wood, and she flushed when she realized that she had been searched for. There was a moment's profound relief on both Théodred and Éomer's faces, even though it was quickly covered in favor of exasperation for her daring to enter the Golden Wood in the first place.  
  
It was some time before Éomer was able to take her aside, and urgently ask, “Did you encounter the witch? Did she harm you in any way?”  
  
“Did you get the bloom of _elanor_?” Éothain was more interested to inquire, his eyes gleaming in the light from the campfire.  
  
“No,” she simply answered them each before stalking over to her sleeping roll for the night. But her hand was still cupped over her prize, and when she drew the flower out where none could see, it was still a bright, burning shade of gold underneath the moonlight.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
As a maid of nine and ten, her world was confined to the halls of Medusheld as shadows seemingly crept through the walls of brick and mortar and sank into the mind of Rohan's king.  
  
Her uncle was not as he once was; with a dull, ghostly glaze blurring his once brilliant eyes of blue, and his greying yellow hair dulling and loosing its luster as the days went on. He moved slowly now, with none of the vigor and vim she had long associated him with, and his flesh was pallid and clammy – even underneath the warming rays of the noon sun. She walked with him arm and arm, not in familiarity and closeness, but rather, because she was not sure if he could keep himself upright without her support. Her arm was all that kept him from falling, and his grip about her trembled.  
  
When they came to the east pasture, containing that season's crop of yearlings, she spread out her blanket upon the grass, and bid her uncle sit. She was running out of ideas to bolster his health, but the warm sunlight above and the sound of the whinnying colts as they played with each other could do nothing but good for Théoden's soul, and, perhaps, return a bit of _himself_ to him – or so she could only hope.  
  
But he only picked disinterestedly at the cheese and the first berries of autumn she had packed for them, and his eyes only focused when the cries from the prancing yearlings turned particularly loud as they raced on by. Even so, when the inquisitive youngsters trotted over to the fence line, looking for treats, Éowyn alone indulged them, and Théoden merely watched; looking, she could not help but think, without truly seeing.  
  
When the horses took off running once more, Éowyn was silent for a long while as she sat with her uncle. She took out her next attempt to rouse Théoden from his apathy – the book of fae tales he had once given to her in those terrible days following her father's death. Yet, she could not immediately bring herself to read the stories aloud. Instead, she stared at the horizon, once again letting her eyes search for the tell-tale sign of waving banners and sunlight glinting off of steel; hating that she was once again left alone in Edoras while her cousin and brother rode out with the fighting men. They left to defend Rohan with acts of valor and deeds of renown, while she, in her turn was left to battle -  
  
“My lady, long has your uncle's council been in search of him,” a low voice, as smooth as spider silk and just as deadly to those unwary, spoke over her shoulder. “Had we but known you that you had taken him hostage, we would have been spared many pains.”  
  
Éowyn felt a shiver creep over her skin, although the day was warm, and fought the urge she had to find her feet and stand on equal ground with him – not wanting to give away any sign of her discomfort. She had thought that the bright light of the day and the peaceful beauty of the land meant that _he_ would not follow, but she was wrong. She looked up to find Gríma Gálmód's son staring down at her through too-large eyes; with the bright sunlight only emphasizing the unnatural paleness of his skin and the dull, slick quality of his hair.  
  
She stiffened, and set her shoulders to say, “As you have grown so fond of speaking through my uncle's mouth, I am surprised that you would bother with the pretense of having him sit where only your voice would be heard.”  
  
“My lady wounds me with her lack of belief,” Gríma put a hand to his heart to say. She held her jaw tightly, and told herself not to pick at her dress – fidgeting would only alert him to the fact that his stare unnerved her, and she did not care for the way his eyes traced the line of her collar and the dip of her waist . . . and lingered. “Your regard is as a knife to the heart.”  
  
“I care not,” she responded imperiously, and looked back down at her book again. “A pity, it is, that a snake may survive many such wounds before death. Or,” she let her eyes flicker up and over him, not bothering to conceal her disdain, “a worm.”  
  
But Gríma only made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “Théoden King cannot find his voice as of late, but yours would be most welcomed before the counsel, for your words are sharper than any sword. It would be a . . . _blessing_ for any man to have a woman such as you by his side. I am surprised that your uncle has not blossomed underneath your tender ministrations, for they would be but bliss for another . . . and yet, his health only wanes all the more so with each passing day.”  
  
Sharply, she looked up to stare at him, disturbed to see but _nothing_ in the dark pits of his eyes. She exhaled, and felt her next breath catch in her throat, wondering . . . but although a part of her _knew_ who was to blame for Théoden's fading health, in her heart of hearts, how was such a thing possible? Such black arts had been far from their lands for so long, and now, for her uncle to fall as Gríma rose in power . . .  
  
She had no proof, she thought next, her thoughts spinning wildly, and yet, she _knew_ . . . and if Gríma _did_ hold her uncle's recovery . . . or his further descent . . . so completely in his hands . . .  
  
Carefully, Gríma watched her thoughts flash across the surface of her eyes, and a sort of satisfaction bloomed within his own expression. As a whisper, she then felt as Gríma touched her shoulder, and gently, as a whisper, his fingertips brushed against the long fall of her hair. She felt bile rise in her throat, then wondering – _fearing_ – what sort of price he would demand of her if so allowed in the days to come, and hating that fear as it rose up to rob her of her breath.  
  
But she jerked away from the counselor when there was the sound of an approaching stride – just as Gríma too took a step away, as decorum demanded. She was thankful beyond words when she turned to see her brother – with the dust of the road still marring his leathers and armor, and his brow furrowed into a concerned line. She met his eyes, and held her chin up as best she could.  
  
“My men have just newly returned from the East-mark, and I would not bother my uncle with such sundries as our reports when there is no need,” Éomer said to Gríma, with steel lining his voice. “Go, Éothain awaits you.”  
  
Power though the counselor may have gained, it was that which only stood when her cousin and brother were away, Éowyn thought . . . or, at least, so it did for now.  
  
Even so, she exhaled a sigh of relief when Gríma bowed his head and whispered, “my lord,” in a voice that nonetheless revealed a ghost of his disdain, and then he was gone.  
  
When Éomer turned to her, she forced her mouth into a thin line, and blinked away the tears building from frustration she could feel within her gaze. There were questions in his eyes, but she could not answer them - not yet.  
  
“Later, we will speak,” Éomer said gently, understanding, and when he touched her shoulder she leaned into the affection, turning to rest her cheek against his arm for but a moment – finding her strength to be refreshed by the promise in his voice.  
  
When he turned to tend to his men, she squared her shoulders, and wiped fiercely at her eyes with the heel of her hand, refusing to give in to her darker thoughts – or her tears, any longer. Determinedly, she returned her attention to the book in her lap, and forced her eyes to focus on the page as she reached over to clasp her uncle's hand in her own – though he gave but no sign that he recognized her touch, or had been aware of any of the conversation that had occurred around him, she thought with a pang.  
  
And she started to read aloud, forcing her voice not to tremble all the while, “ . . . and Idril Celebrindal felt the eyes of Maeglin Eöl's son upon her, and looked not in return, knowing as she did, that in such a perverted desire, only heartache, and tragedy could be reaped . . .”  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
As a woman of four and twenty, she saw her first of true battle . . . of love . . . of heartbreak . . . and found them all to be much the same.  
  
Though her arm was healing with every passing day, and only a faint weariness lingered about her body from the fell dread of the Black Breath, the healers still refused to let her go any further than the gardens. She chafed underneath their watch, even as she placed herself where she could see the black outline of Mordor beyond, and daily imagined the great deeds of renown that were occurring there, even as she sat still and once again lost herself in the dull monotony of _waiting_. It was not right, she could not help but think, that so many brave and noble men were warring and dying for their shield-brothers, for their people, for Middle-earth as a whole, even, while she . . .  
  
She clasped her shawl more securely about her shoulders, and bit her lower lip so as to avoid the tears that were waiting to fall. Her mind was not content since felling the Witch-king . . . since her uncle's death . . . since Aragorn's rejection; she felt stifled, chaffing in her very skin, as if the ache on her soul was a wound that constantly itched, and she could do but naught to relieve it.  
  
The healers whispered that such was a result of the Black Breath, and a lingering ailment of her encounter with the Witch-king, but Éowyn knew better, and she feared . . .  
  
Sighing, she sat back in the chair the healers had set up in the gardens for her, and turned through the book of tales that they had been kind enough to fetch for her. Any other time, she would have been thrilled by such an offering – for the halls of Minas Tirith were overfilling with lore from the Elder Days, and she normally would have wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the countless pages awaiting her. But there was a time for the pen, and a time for the sword, and now . . .  
  
She flipped absently through the pages, feeling her heart twist when she came to a familiar tale. She paused over the beautiful words, reaching out to trace Lúthien's fervent pleas before Death itself, and a new ache filled her heart, thinking of Aragorn and his Elf-maid . . . _his_ Lúthien, holding his heart while she waited patiently for his hand, leaving Éowyn alone in her regard and _wanting_ . . .  
  
“Ah, this tale is a much favored one of mine.”  
  
Éowyn looked up to see a slight shadow marring her view of the dark land beyond, but without her will, her mouth turned up in a smile, no matter how small – and the expression seemed to light a spark of satisfaction in the eyes of Faramir Denethor's son. She sat up straighter for seeing so, and as he sat down in the chair next to her own – which she _had not_ been waiting for him to come out and fill, as he often had in their last sennight together as _prisoners_ of the Houses of Healing – she discreetly reached up to dry her eyes with a determined hand, not wanting him to see proof of her grief.  
  
“You believe in such fae tales?” she asked when he was settled, raising a thin brow in question.  
  
“I believe in history,” Faramir countered, “just as I believe in the lessons one can learn from those who've come before us.”  
  
He had moved his chair close to her own, and he leaned over to peer at the open pages of the book she held in her lap. This close, Éowyn noticed that he smelled of pine wood and something brighter than that, something that she could only think to describe as sunlight and _sky_. When he bent his head to better see the book, she noticed the strands of umber in the seemingly black shade of his hair, and she stared at the slant of his brow and the line of his nose as if he were a riddle; a fascinating thing. His hand on the open pages of the book was very close to her own, she realized, and the knowledge sat oddly within her, filling her with a warmth she could not quite explain.  
  
“And, what's more than that,” he tilted his head to confide, his soft grey eyes twinkling, “all my interest in lore aside, I must confess myself to be somewhat of a romantic; this tale has always moved me . . . to fight for one's love so, against all odds . . . Boromir often liked to tease me for it, and yet . . .” but his bright gaze then dimmed, and she saw a shadow of the same restlessness she felt in his expression . . . the same discontentment . . . the same _yearning_.  
  
And something within her heart twisted, though the ache did not wound her as she moved her hand from the pages of the book to cover his own. A cool breeze swept down from the mountains, and she watched it tease at his hair as she gathered her courage to ask, “Would you care to read the tale aloud, my lord? I would not tell the healers, but I do tax myself too easily as of late, and my vision is already weary from my reading for too long. Yet . . .”  
  
“It would be my honor, my lady,” Faramir did not make her explain further, and she ducked her head to hide the flush that had unexpectedly bloomed over the curve of her cheeks. For a moment, she felt his stare, before he too looked down. He took a moment to gather himself, and then turned to the beginning of Lúthien's tale. His voice was strong and warm as the tale unwound, and for a moment she found that could forget that there were those living and dying beyond them. The soft, insistent voice that had too long held sway inside of her was then silent, and she did not keep her eyes open and fixed on the shadow of Mordor beyond.  
  
Instead, Éowyn closed her eyes, and found a moment's peace within herself as Faramir read to her old tales of heroic deeds and unfaltering devotion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dwimordene** : Rohan's name for Lothlórien.
> 
> **Shield-maidens** : Were a revered part of the northern society that Tolkien took his inspiration for Rohan from. So I named a few (allegedly) real-life shield-maidens that I believe should be properly recognized. (1) Lagertha: who helped her husband Ragnar Lothbrok rise to power as King of the Danes, and even after their divorce, came to his aid during a civil war in Denmark with 120 ships and saved his life on the battlefield. When her new husband quarreled over her decision to do so, and moved to strike her, she killed him with a spearhead, and ruled from that moment forth alone. You can see where the TV show _Vikings_ took inspiration from that. ;) (2) Freydís: was the sister of Leif Erikson, and while in Vinland was famous for picking up a sword and rallying her brother's men during an ambush by the natives, doing so while pregnant and not dressed for battle, at that. (3) Hervor: was a brave, sea-faring Viking of great renown. She had mastery of the cursed sword Tyrfing, and her legend was one her daughter and granddaughter continued after her. Interestingly enough, the tales we have of Hervor are most easily known by Christopher Tolkien's translation of _The Saga of King Heidrik the Wise_ , as his father took inspiration for Rohan, Mirkwood, a certain mithril-coat, haunted barrows, and even a dwarf named Durin from that tale. So I have to imagine that Hervor was inspiration for Éowyn, as well.


	93. "chance may crown me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon & Maedhros || Prompt: _Stalemate_

**Stalemate**  
  
The room was dark, so much so that had Maedhros not felt his presence within he would have kept on walking, thinking nothing of the shadows and that which they hid within their thick, obscuring veils. He hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat before finding a path through the dark, gliding down the wide aisle of the hall and ignoring the empty throne on its dais in favor of the dark form he could now see slouched against the wall behind it; the black of his head merging with the dark blue of the banner he leaned upon. The gold twinkling from his braids was dim in the non-light, as was the faint grey of his eyes, distantly burning in the dark.  
  
Maedhros was silent as he sat on the floor next to his cousin, and after a moment's pondering, he lit Fingon's extinguished candle with the dimly flickering one he held in his own hands. The small, warm light flickered into being, dancing over the bottle of dark red wine Fingon had before him without a goblet. There was another bottle empty and overturned next to it, and Maedhros slanted his eyes from the sight as Fingon flinched; the soft candlelight was too bright, burning his eyes. He squinted, clearly trying to focus his mind against the comfortably numb haze provided by the wine's embrace.  
  
Maedhros allowed him time to gather his wits, meanwhile stretching his long legs out on the cold floor and resting his head against the wall behind him. The position was not necessarily comfortable, but the darkness was soothing, as was the quiet, and he thought to understand his cousin's hiding himself away from both the Noldorin courtiers flocking to garner their new king's favor and the myriads of mournful condolences that must have followed on the wings of Fingolfin's death. Earlier that evening, when he had arrived in Mithrim from Himring, he had been surprised when the figures there to greet him - robed in black to mourn the recent passing of the High-king - had not included Fingon. That normally bright place his cousin claimed in his soul had been wan and faded ever since Fingolfin's passing, and it remained so now, even when Maedhros sat close enough to touch him. Fingon seemed aware of little – even the wine was untouched before him, though Maedhros had no doubt that it had been his faithful companion for the fortnight's time.  
  
Maedhros did not immediately speak, instead he sat still and silent in the dark, and waited for Fingon to find his words - for they never deserted him long.  
  
“This,” at last Fingon's voice was heard; a dry, rasping sound from days of grief and nothing but the strong wine to sooth his throat for some hours. He gestured in such a way that made it impossible to tell if he referenced his black garb and crookedly plaited hair, or the throne room with its empty king's seat and floating banners, wavering as silent sentinels overhead, “is all _your_ fault.”  
  
“I am not normally to blame for your consumption of spirits,” Maedhros replied blandly. Even so, true concern pinched his expression, and he reached out with that concern in an attempt to touch the layers seemingly wrapped about Fingon's spirit, keeping him dull and morose rather than raging and _burning_. “At least, not lately,” Maedhros added. He forced a note of levity to his words, though he instantly knew how his attempt at a lighter mood failed. “ . . . just as you are normally not so maudlin in your cups.”  
  
Fingon's brow furrowed in a scowl, as if he was vexed to have to apply his mind to concentrate on anything – the wine having no doubt dulled his powers of comprehension quite nicely. “ _All_ Fëanorians are unusually thick, stupid creatures.” he declared, “no matter what would be said of your genius otherwise. _I_ know better.”  
  
In an uncoordinated gesture, he kicked disgracefully at the shadows, and from underneath the throne Maedhros saw a dull glitter of light upon a polished surface. After a heartbeat he recognized -  
  
“ - _t_ _hat_ is your fault,” Fingon's brow darkened even further, and Maedhros felt a more delicate frown press his mouth into a thin line as he reached over to pick up the familiar circlet. It was one that he had seen his grandfather wear for centuries . . . and then his father for but a blinking . . . and next his half-uncle after he refused that burden for the heads of Fëanor's sons.  
  
Carefully, Maedhros turned the band of white-gold over in his hand, staring at its sapphires and diamonds and tracing the great prongs that reached up like folded wings from the band. “It has been remade,” he remarked after a heartbeat, noticing a less skilled hand than the smiths in Aman – where Aulë himself had shown the Noldor how to craft wares for their king during their first days in the Undying Lands, or so Maedhros remembered from his father's lore.  
  
“It had to be replicated – the ceremonial one, at least,” Fingon's voice was little more than a brittle whisper. “Atar was wearing it when . . . when . . .” but his voice broke over the last word, and he could say no more.  
  
Maedhros understood, nonetheless, and he closed his own eyes against the unexpected wave of feeling that rose up to choke him – unsure if it was his own grief for Fingolfin's death, or empathy for Fingon's pain that he felt more acutely. The emotion was as a blade, either way, and he swallowed against its cut.  
  
“This is laughable,” Fingon forced himself to give his thoughts a voice. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, as if it pained him to focus his gaze. “I am the son of a second son of an immortal king – as such, the idea of ruling was always farfetched . . . laughable, even . . . or so I once thought, long ago. And, if by some unfortunate twist of fate Finwë _did_ fall, Fëanor and his seven sons would first wear the crown of the Noldor . . . then Atar . . . and _then_ me. The kingship was never meant for me to bear – and it still should not be, you _know_ that it should not. I am a soldier, I have little skill or care for fencing words like steel; rather give me a battlefield and grant me a clear path and a purpose to aid my people by. But _this_ way . . . Turvo would have been a better choice for leading, if he were not holed up in the mountains somewhere . . . At least I may, perhaps, be better than Irissë . . . and we never got to know with Arvo . . .” But his voice tapered off with a dull croak of sound, and Maedhros knew that it was not his impending coronation that hung so heavily upon his heart . . . at least, not entirely.  
  
“I was sorry to hear of your father's death,” Maedhros whispered. His words were soft in the dark, but he knew that Fingon heard him.  
  
“Weren't we all?” Fingon muttered, bitterness touching his voice – along with a sharp edge that Maedhros identified as an impotent rage, an unquantifiable _hate_ , no matter how righteously it may have been inspired. “Atar had borne enough of seeing our people buckle and fall underneath Morgoth's machinations; I understand that, I felt – _feel_ – that frustration too. And yet . . . my father always was a bit like your father, though he would have hated my saying so. He could not so coldly preside and reign from afar after his people took such a blow as the Bragollach . . . but . . . dueling with Morgoth outright? He died a pointless death, and left me alone with _this_ . . .” Fingon gestured sharply at the crown again and had to stop speaking in order to recover himself. He made a stiff, square line of his jaw, and Maedhros could see the wet sheen of tears when he blinked.  
  
“Atar is gone, and I can only think of what my mother must be feeling now . . . I . . . I miss her, and fear that she feels that I have failed her somehow . . . with I still alive while two children and her mate have now fallen.” But that was something Fingon could never dwell on for long, and he passed aside his confession quickly - for his own sake, more so than anything else. Maedhros, thinking of Nerdanel in the West, could empathize in a small way, wondering how his mother still had all seven of her sons alive where Anairë . . . and even Eärwen had lost . . .  
  
. . . but those deaths were still new to his heart, and he could not quite comprehend them.  
  
“I miss Turvo, too, so much that it's as a pain. If he were here I'd abdicate to him in a second – he always was more like Amil, with his calm head and his clever sensibilities. He could hold the scepter of the Noldor, and I could continue to general his troops - together we could be quite unstoppable. Yet . . . Thorondor . . . Thorondor brought Atar's body to Gondolin, did you know?” Fingon's words were sharp and staccato, as if they were painful to hold upon his tongue and needed to be uttered quickly so as to not suffer a wound from their bite. “Morgoth . . . Morgoth would not relinquish his body after the duel, and he intended . . . but the Eagles saved what was left, even if they did not return him to Mithrim. I . . . I do not know how I feel about that, not truly; I miss Turvo, and at the same time I hate him for leaving like a thief in the night, he and Irissë too . . . She was always such a presence . . . such a _heat,_ and I did not appreciate her – or either of them, really - until they were gone. Irissë . . . she was so, so bright, and to feel her dim and wan before just winking out entirely . . .  
  
“She . . . she has a son, did you know?” Fingon was mumbling by then, his muffled words like poison bubbling up from a wound. But he could not quite hold his speech inside when he had stifled his voice for much too long, and quietly Maedhros listened, saying nothing in reply where no words could quite be spoken.  
  
“He is that _monster's_ son,” Fingon bared his teeth in a fey gesture, “but he is hers too . . . a part of her, still living while she does not. I've never met him, though, and I do not know if I ever shall – Turvo won't leave wherever he is hidden, not even for Atar's funeral, nor for my coronation . . . not with the remnants of the Bragollach still burning around us. And I . . . I miss them. I miss them as I miss my father, and . . .” But his voice caught between his teeth, and finally, he forced himself to complete his thought, “I admit that I never knew Arakáno well enough to truly miss him. Those last days in Aman . . . I was shocked that my parents decided to have a child, though I understand now that he was a light in a dark time for them . . . For my part, there was so much on my mind following Fëanor's exile . . . and you accompanying him . . . I then thought that I had forever to get to know my brother. I did not know him well enough to love him beyond merely loving that he was my brother . . . and that haunts me . . . it hurts me to admit, more so than anything else, I think.”  
  
After that, Fingon held his mouth tightly closed, and Maedhros felt that place he held in his spirit beat with a dull, listless pain. His eyes fell half closed, as if their lids were too heavy to hold open as he peered into some memory far beyond where Maedhros could reach. After exhaling, he reached for his second bottle of wine and took a long draw of the red liquid within. He merely stared at the green glass following, frowning as the strong vintage did but little to dull his pain.  
  
“The Valar were right, you know,” Fingon muttered softly, so softly that Maedhros strained to hear him. “This is a cursed land and we all will fall, one by one, until, someday, there will be not a one of us left standing against the Shadow. That is our true curse, our true doom: that we fight and rage and dare to think that we can triumph against the dying of the light. It's that wanting, that _hope_ that truly poisons us in the end, and I've tired of tasting it.” Fingon gave a low, mirthless chuckle, and took another swallow of wine, as if he had just completed a toast.  
  
And Maedhros watched him, feeling his own heart twist to know that Fingon's grief spiraled downwards and throbbed as an open wound. He was so used to Fingon being an anchor against the consuming maelstrom of his own thoughts, standing tall and positive against his own visions of the future. But now . . . he squared his jaw to say quietly, strongly into the dark, “You may think your head ill suited to the task, but there is not a better one of us to wear Grandfather's crown.”  
  
“Says he who _was_ the best candidate for the kingship,” Fingon snorted to say, his eyes flashing with a white heat. “It killed me to see you abdicate your title that day, pressing your head to the floor and swearing fealty as you gave away the right that was yours by birth. You looked more a king, bowing and plaintive and all skin and bones from Angband, than my father ever did in all his glory . . . Atar thought so too, and that day ever sat ill with him . . . for you were not Fëanor, whom he would have delighted in seeing so humbled . . . you were his brother-son, trying desperately for redemption and peace between our families, and he hated the need for that day.”  
  
“You know why I had to,” Maedhros muttered, frowning as he recalled abdicating his title, remembering the mingled relief and guilt that his decision had brought him - both then and now. “Without the Noldor united together, as a whole, then our Oath stood not a chance of ever being fulfilled. And, for that Oath . . .” his words tapered off. He could not speak, but he knew that Fingon understood; for this was a conversation they often uttered.  
  
“You may _think_ that you do not have the best interests of the Noldor, or Endórë as a whole, at heart, and yet -” Fingon began.  
  
“ - I cannot be trusted to do so, it is as simple as that,” Maedhros interrupted, honesty leaving a bitter taste within his mouth. “Not while . . .” he tried to form his words, but could not quite manage to speak. His right wrist burned with a phantom pang as he thought about Morgoth with his father's Silmarils blazing from his crown. No matter the ruin of his body during those dark years in Angband, his Oath had tried to move his hands to claim, to _seize_ , fighting broken limbs and shredded tissue and ruined ligaments in order to _take_ , even then – prompting the Dark Vala to laugh in delight, each and every time he was close enough to touch. Even now he could feel his vow pool in his heart and light a dark heat under his lungs, making it difficult to breathe, to sit in peace and comfort his friend as the beast of his promise howled and demanded to be sated – caring not of the higher reasoning of his mind, much as it ever had.  
  
But, even in his own grief, Fingon leaned over to place a hand on his right shoulder, and for a moment, the echoing pain in his hand did not seem to consume him as he felt a familiar, validating warmth echo through his spirit – no matter that Fingon himself then had but little of his own light to share.  
  
“For now, your Oath and the vanquishing of Morgoth run hand in hand, they exist side by side, and every step your take to retrieve what was stolen from your kin will only benefit the people toiling in this land,” Fingon did not quite agree with his more cynical thoughts – he never did. Even though Fingon could glimpse the chains binding his soul, he merely frowned at the darkness waiting for the failing of his words, ever believing that whatever was _good_ about his heart would prove enough to render the gaping maw of his Oath powerless when it truly mattered. Even now he only tightened his jaw to say, “You know that I have always held you to be stronger than the words you spoke. You swore a vow, true, but it is to you to see _how_ that vow is fulfilled; I trust the strength of your spirit to know that you will do so honorably in the days to come. There will not be another Alqualondë to your hands, and for that long ago day your deeds of valor in this land have seen an equalizing; this I have to believe.”  
  
Even so, Maedhros could not quite share his easy faith, his unfaltering belief, knowing that, even then, for the Silmarils that were wrenched from his family at price of his grandfather's blood he would . . .  
  
. . . but he closed his eyes for a long moment, and forced that part of his spirit to settle, to still. He needed none of those black thoughts; not then, not when . . .  
  
“And, what's more than that, I have claimed being the morose one this eve,” Fingon at last gave an exaggerated scowl, his thoughts running much alongside Maedhros' own. “Do not take that right from me, or else I shall be most cross.”  
  
“I would not dare,” Maedhros responded after a heartbeat, collecting himself once more. He reached over to pick up the crown again, frowning as he reflected over its differences to the one Finwë wore so long ago. The metals of Endórë were weightier, and its pressure threatened to bruise the head that wore it.  
  
Even so: “You honor your father, and our grandfather, by doing this,” Maedhros finally said after the passing of a long moment. When he turned the crown, it caught the faint dancing of the candlelight, and reflected it tenfold. “Finwë would have been proud of you, and I . . . I can think of no one else I would rather bow my head and swear fealty to. You love our people, and your heart is valiant; your counsel will only guide the Noldor for the better, I believe. And when you think your burden to be too much, remember that you are not alone – I will not leave your side should you have need of me. In anything.”  
  
Fingon looked at him, and for the first time Maedhros thought that he truly _saw_ him in the dark throne-room. This time, Maedhros was the one to reach over and take his right hand in his own, tightening his grip and letting Fingon feel him there as an anchor – as the sword and a shield that he was more than ready to be. Fingon's mouth pulled in a slow, resigned smile, and finally he sighed.  
  
“You have me at a stalemate, then,” Fingon shrugged to say, though the gesture was easier than it would have been just moments ago. “Between your belief and mine, we shall just have to see which one is proven true in the years to come.”  
  
He was, Maedhros knew, not only speaking about the kingship. In reply, he fought away his frown, and merely inclined his head, unwilling to give voice to his darker thoughts and somber certainties. They did not have any place then.  
  
“Still . . . is it not too late to offer Artanis the crown?” after a long moment, Fingon posed his question. He tilted his head, clearly liking the idea all the more so as he thought about it. “We would have to bend a few laws, of course, but all would benefit from her rule, I believe.”  
  
“You know, the war against Angband would be over in a sennight if you did so,” Maedhros allowed, raising a brow in exaggerated thoughtfulness.  
  
“She could _stare_ Morgoth into submission,” Fingon gave with a shudder. “He would fall on his knees and weep before her if she but glared long enough.”  
  
“She can pay for the siege by instituting a tax for anyone with sub-par brilliance to their hair,” Maedhros theorized, tapping his chin as he pondered.  
  
“And she may fine Moriquendi slurs as she sees fit – though only a few of your brothers' purses would be able to suffer such a rule, I fear,” Fingon's smile slanted to say.  
  
“All the better for _me_ would Artanis wearing the crown be if she could successfully knock some sense into my kin,” Maedhros could not help but snort. “It would do well by them.”  
  
His words had the desired effect: Fingon smiled, broadly and truly. The expression reached his eyes, and set the stormy grey colour awash with white storm-light. The expression only dimmed but slightly when he reached over the pick up Finwë's reconstructed crown. Fingon turned the circlet over, and tapped a fingertip against the largest sapphire in the center, heaving a sigh as he did so.  
  
“It is a terribly gaudy thing, is it not?” his voice was careful blank, and the reflected light from the jewels danced over his skin and caught in the black of his hair like stars.  
  
“It is the crown of the Noldor,” Maedhros shrugged to say, as if that should answer everything. “And you shall wear it well.”  
  
Fingon's mouth pressed into a thin line, and with slow hands he reached up to put the crown atop his head. He squared his shoulders against the weight and tilted up his chin so that the circlet did not weigh his head down. Maedhros blinked at the sight he presented, seeing a shadow of Fingolfin, of Finwë, even, though he knew that Fingon would never view himself in such a way.  
  
When Fingon reached up to take off the crown, his movements were even slower, and his fingertips were white against the glittering metal. All he said was, “It is heavy.”  
  
For that, Maedhros had nothing to say . . . in one way, or another.  
  
Instead, Maedhros went to pick up the forgotten bottle of wine by its neck. Fingon watched him, and said with a forced levity to his voice, “If you intend on taking that away from me, best would it be if you too took your leave.”  
  
Maedhros snorted and ruefully admitted, “I was going to drink to your kingship, actually.” He then took a long draw of the wine, fighting not to make a face for its strong flavor. Such a vintage was not made for gulping, but it was what they had available to them at the moment. “May your rule ease the burdened shoulders of the Noldor in Exile, and fight back the Shadow for as long as your reign may be.”  
  
“ . . . for as long as my reign may be,” Fingon echoed before taking his turn with the bottle. He took a long swallow of the wine, and they continued to drink in silence as the night closed around them.


	94. "through your time"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir/Haleth || Prompt: _Rush_
> 
> A bit more lighthearted update, following my Caranthir/Haleth arc from chapters 10, 31, 34, 52, 53, 60, 64, 79, and 99 . . . because I am not still avoiding writing all the drama that's to come. Nope. Not me. ;)

At first, the mushrooms seemed perfectly harmless: green and pale about the caps, a species the Haladin commonly used in their soups and stews, and even ate plain just after cleaning. Haleth did not think anything about gleaning a dozen of the heads to add to their supper that night; rather, she was pleased to have found a way to bolster the rations they had tucked away in their saddlebags until they could return to the settlement once more. Such provisions were an unexpected gift, and she did not think twice before partaking of them.  
  
She was even more pleased to have prepared a dish that Caranthir so clearly enjoyed. It was rare to find him completely absorbed in a meal, without 'helpfully' adding well-meaning suggestions and undisguised critiques for her to use the next time she cooked. Such had produced more than one row between them in the past, and, rather than thinking that his silence was held only to maintain the peace, she could feel his honest enjoyment from the now familiar place he occupied within her mind, so much so that -  
  
\- she was surprised when he frowned, placing his wooden bowl down on the stump next to him and grimacing as if pained. She could feel his discomfort roll against their bond; it was something she could not first describe, and made all the more bewildering for the foreignness of such a sensation. Oh, nausea and dizziness were things _she_ was more than familiar with, mortal that she was, but for _him_ . . .  
  
Haleth looked up from where she had been cleaning her tack for the rest of their return journey to Estolad, and frowned, feeling concern prick at her consciousness as a hot needle. Something was not right, and such a sense was one she had long learned to trust in its entirety.  
  
“Carnistir?” she asked outright, her concern colouring her voice more than she first cared to admit. “Are you well?”  
  
But Caranthir did not immediately answer her. Instead, he leaned over to peer at where she had prepped the stew, and frowned to pick up one of the pale green mushrooms. He held a hand to his mouth, and concern flooded through her veins in a reflection of his own sudden burst of unease as he asked, his voice deceivingly calm, “Did you eat any of these?”  
  
“Not yet,” Haleth answered, her own unease taking on a sharp, pressing edge. “I wanted to finish here first,” she gestured down at the gear still laid out before her, muddy from where they had forded a murky river earlier that afternoon, and was further surprised when a wave of relief clearly washed over his features – she could feel it as a warm blanket over her own senses, and it only further added to her unease. “Why?” she asked, suspicion forming a horrible intuition within her mind. “What is wrong? Are they . . .” but her mouth tripped on her words, and she could not finish her thought.  
  
“Poisonous?” Caranthir helpfully provided where she yet could not. “Yes, quite. _Morgoth's bonnet_ , my folk call them – they, rather alarmingly, resemble other edible mushrooms, yet they are truly . . .” but he winced and buckled over, clearly in pain. She could see where his brow beaded with sweat, and, alarmed, she pushed the tack aside from her lap and darted to his place by the campfire. When she pressed the heel of her hand to his forehead, his skin was alarmingly hot to the touch. It was _feverish_.  
  
“But, you . . .” she could not find her suddenly stuttering words, for he was _elven_ , the fair folk did not take sick, they did not do anything as terribly _mortal_ as run fevers, they -  
  
“ - are still suspect to poison,” Caranthir all but chirped in response to her innermost thoughts. Even underneath the foreign substance she could feel flood his system, turning his bond with her edged with a sickly sensation that she could only describe as color - pale yellow and vaporous green – she feel his relief that she did not share his plight, and it was making him giddy. “But not fatally so . . . it will just be a vastly uncomfortable time for me while my body heals itself. If _you_ had eaten them . . .” but he swallowed, and she knew what he meant to say without his finding the words.  
  
Even so, her fear was a wild, leaping thing in her heart, and for a moment she could not breathe. If this poison was strong enough to have killed _her_ , then _he_ , no matter how fey he was . . .  
  
It was silly, ridiculous even, for something as trifle as a _fungus_ to take them, one from the other, so soon, and she let her anger and annoyance at the unfairness of fate's ways to spur her into action. Before he was too far gone to be insensible, she set out his bedroll over her own for extra comfort on the hard ground, and helped him over to the place she had prepared – trying all the while not to be alarmed by how easily he let himself succumb to her mothering. When asked what she could do to help, he asked only for water to help flush his system out faster, and assured her that his body would be fine without further aid. A distant thought within his mind, one that she was sure he had not intended to share, whispered that another Elf, one versed in Song, could be of aid, but, beyond that . . .  
  
Once again, their differences were stark between them, as noon set apart from night, and Haleth swallowed away a sudden rush of black thought – one that she did not want weighing her down while he had need of her. She _would not_. Not then.  
  
For, as predicted, the next forty-eight hours were what she could only describe as miserable for Caranthir. He sweated profusely, and his fever had him shaking from hot to cold and back again. His stomach heaved and recoiled as it fought the foreign substance from his system, and she helped him through the more ungraceful aspects of his body expelling the poison from his being with as much dignity and tenderness as she could. More than once, when she had been struck low by the failings of her own body during their years together, she had found shame and discomfort in his aiding her through her trials, but now she wondered how she had ever felt so when their roles were reversed. Perhaps, in a black moment or two during her previous sicknesses, she had even wished such hardships on him so that he could better understand her discomfort with his aid, but now she swallowed such unkind musings away and wished that she had never dared to tempt Vairë into such a weaving. It hurt her to see him brought so low, with everything that was so untouchably fey and ethereally _more_ about him stripped away and left miserable and bare before her now.  
  
As much as possible, she did her best to turn her darker thoughts away, instead passing what comfort and soothing peace she could to him through their bond. When he was done sweating and shaking through the worst of it, she curled up by his side when the night turned cool, running her fingers through the tangled mass of his hair and humming against his skin, knowing that she was not one of the fabled Singers, but hoping to provide what comfort she could.  
  
That evening, when it finally seemed as if he was merely sleeping – and, at last, she could feel no untoward pain or lingering discomfort from his mind - Haleth did her best to help him clean up from his ordeal. By then she well knew how fastidious he was about tending to his own hygiene – she'd dared to call him a peacock on more than one occasion, and for good reason - and with that thought in mind, she carefully cleaned his face with a damp rag, doing her best to erase the grime and oils from his sweating so profusely in the open, muggy late summer air. She was happily taken by her task, not at all minding a chance to observe him without feeling as if she were staring, feeling her heart fill with a silly, girlish appreciation for the Eru-given sculpt of his handsome features and the strong form of his body as she let the rag run down his neck to his collarbone. Gently, she followed the line and hollow it made before running further down his bare chest, quite content to trace the highs and dips of his musculature before -  
  
\- a hand gripped her wrist, and she vaguely heard, “That tickles,” as his stomach muscles did indeed flinch away from her well meaning ministrations. She looked up to see Caranthir drowsily blinking, his eyes once again the stormy silver-grey that had first enchanted her, rather than the glazed, fever-bright stare of the last two days.  
  
Something about her relief must have shown on her face, for his hand tightened around her wrist, and she felt where his thumb ran soothingly over the back of her hand. “You should poison me more often,” Caranthir rumbled low in his chest, “I could become used to awakening in such a way.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but even his attempt at drawing out her humor could not hide the way her chest felt suddenly tight over her lungs, caging her heart with a clenching sensation that she had not the words to name. “You have more than done so for me in our time together,” she pointed out, struggling to keep her voice level with the even plains of logic. “It was simply my turn to take care of you.”  
  
“Mmm,” Caranthir closed his eyes to respond. “Such ministrations have been my pleasure . . . though, I must confess that it is not as enjoyable on the patient's end.”  
  
Haleth snorted to ruefully comment, “The woes of mortality are many, alas.”  
  
“I,” Caranthir grimaced at her words, his cheeks losing some of the healthy colour they had only just regained, “never want another mushroom again.”  
  
“Never?” Haleth raised a brow to return. “That is a long time for you, _lord elf_.” She could not help the note of teasing that entered her voice, and was further assured – _he is alive, he is well, and all will be well_ – when he gave a low chuckle at her words. She could feel his chest move underneath her fingertips, easy with humor rather than clenching with pain, and she closed her own eyes as she tried to deal with the swelling tide of her relief.  
  
“Well then,” he amended. “Perhaps someday - centuries from now - I will finally consent to eat a mushroom in remembrance of how my lady wife tried to poison me. Yes,” he sighed in an overly dramatic, _Fëanorian_ manner, “perhaps then I will.”  
  
Her relief truly _was_ a consuming thing for her to find amusement over such a bald statement of her mortality, but she could not help herself. She leaned over so that she rested her head against his chest, nearly boneless with knowing that he was well, _he was recovered_ , and gave a silent sort of laugh in reply. A long moment passed with her smiling against his warmth as he ran a soothing hand through her hair, no matter how gritty and in need of a washing it was.  
  
“You had me worried,” Haleth finally whispered against his skin. “I . . .” _I thought I would lose you, I thought that I had lost you . . . I never thought I'd have to live with you going first, and I could not bear . . . how will you someday bear . . ._  
  
But she could say none of that so easily aloud. Instead, she swallowed her words as if they were stones, and only knew that Caranthir felt her innermost thoughts as his own when he took in a deep breath, and held it. She could feel his lungs expand before he exhaled, long and slow, as if staving off a blow.  
  
“I will not leave you so easily,” Caranthir muttered. She felt his words rumble from his chest and whisper through her mind more than she heard them spoken aloud. “Not ever.”  
  
In reply, she found that she could only close her eyes, sighing into his skin as she tried to recover her own equilibrium, caring but little for how completely rocked on her axis she then was. In reply, she felt Caranthir's hand move from her hair to trail down her back, finding the tense shape of her muscles underneath her skin and kneading almost reflexively. She sighed, and fought the strange burning she could feel behind her eyes as her stress and exhaustion and woes for the future caught up with her all at once, leaving her boneless in their wake.  
  
Until, at last, she felt a note of amusement touch Caranthir's mind as he broke the silence to say, “Though, as much as I was enjoying the sponge bath, you too seem to have fared for the worst while caring for me -”  
  
“ - are you saying that I smell?” Haleth lifted her head to narrow her eyes at him. His eyes met her gaze almost cheekily in reply, all but faerie-like with the mischievousness she could see glinting within.  
  
“I am saying,” Caranthir continued as if she had not spoken, clearly uncaring of her ire – much as he ever was, “that there is a perfectly acceptable lake not far from here. And, if you are worried about my recovery, I could there prove - ”  
  
She swatted at his chest, and rolled her eyes to say, “You are incorrigible.”  
  
“Or,” he returned pleasantly, his hand still lazily following the dips of her spine, “I am merely happy to be alive, and with you.”  
  
Haleth could not hold her ire in the face of his earnestness, which he knew – and his smile only grew as she ducked her head to hide the girlish sort of blush that rose to darken her cheeks. She swatted his chest again for good measure when she felt his muscles seize and retract as he tried to stifle a laugh.  
  
“To clean up _only_ ,” she finally said as she sat up, regretfully removing herself from the warm comfort of his embrace. “You are still healing, Carnë, and I'll not nurse you a second time.”  
  
“But,” he pointed out practically, “I am a child of Aman, you'd be surprised at how fast the Firstborn heal.” He sat up, and she watched as the inky strands of his hair fell unbound over his shoulders, highlighting where his abdominal muscles contracted with his every movement. Beams of red light from the sun's descent above the forest canopy streamed down through the trees to play over his skin, emphasizing the inhumanness that was so tightly leashed in all that he did, true creature of Arda that he was. The storm-light of his eyes was just barely veiled by his long lashes and the line of his mouth was a sensuous smirk, all too dangerously graceful and . . . _himself_ after so recently knowing the sickbed, so much so that she -  
  
\- but Haleth carefully put a lid on her own wayward mind, and only rolled her eyes to say, “Don't push your luck, Fëanorian.”  
  
She pointedly ignored his smile as she turned to find the pack carrying their toiletries, and swung it over her shoulder. Once she was sure of her composure, she then reached down to help him to his feet, happy to tuck herself into his side underneath the pretense of aiding him with his balance should he have need of her. This close, she could hear his heartbeat – strong and steady and _eternal_ – and she let its cadence sooth her as they headed down to the lake.  
  



	95. "the agony and the ecstasy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin/Canonical Wife || Prompt: _Muse_
> 
> Because it has been _much_ too long. This year has been quite the whirlwind, but I am happy to be back and ready to share more anecdotes from this world with you. As always, I thank each and every one of you for your support - you guys make being an author a true joy!

**Muse**  
  
For the most part, Curufinwë did not take notice of the ranks of his father's apprentices as they came and went. They were inconsequential to his consideration, fleeting upon the periphery of his vision, and thus a distraction to his own work. Though they each attempted to unlock Aulë's arts to the best of their abilities, they were all, each and every one of them, a pale shadow to the great rise of his own burgeoning fame, cast in the very mirror of his father's likeness as he was. They were merely vessels for the great overflow of Fëanáro's genius, unremarkable and uninspired, attempting to hold the ocean as if in a thimble - for ever did his sire spill over the minds of those he guided until they went their own ways, either for kinder teachers, or independent workshops of their own. It was a cycle but rarely broken.  
  
In short, the simple truth of the matter was that few of them had talent enough to be worth his interest, and fewer still stood out in his mind to be truly memorable beyond the time they spent underneath his father's supervision. Which meant that it was somewhat remarkable that he noticed Lendaner - a son of one of Finwë's foremost lords from Tirion, whom his grandfather had requested (imposed) that his father to take into his fold - more often than not. Though, Curufinwë would remind himself with a sigh that was equal parts exasperation and true vexation, that was no doubt due to the fact that _she_ was seemingly always at her brother's heels, and fast becoming an oddity enough for him to routinely notice.  
  
_She_ was Lelyanis Mestiel, and she accompanied her brother to the workshop nearly every morning, no matter the early hours Fëanáro demanded his apprentices keep. There, she managed to linger with her full smiles and soft, swishing skirts, trailing the faint scent of lilies in her wake, until Fëanáro sternly shooed her away, day in and day out. Nonetheless, without fail, she was there again in the afternoons to bring her brother lunch – when Fëanáro allowed such repast, that was - just as she was there in the evenings to walk her brother back home in the city proper. Curufinwë, who could not even imagine _Tyelko_ doing the same for him, did not understand the strange sort of bond between the siblings, and when he shared his observations with his brother, he was surprised for the wry sort of amusement his bafflement garnered.  
  
“She does such for her _brother_?” Tyelkormo repeated, raising a white-gold brow as if delighted by his deduction. “Is that truly what you think?”  
  
“What am I supposed to think?” Curufinwë found his voice sharpening, his ire stoked for the implication that his powers of reason were somewhat lacking in any way. (As Fëanáro's would never be, even for something so inconsequential as this.)  
  
“Open those eyes of yours for something besides so superbly echoing our father's greatness,” Tyelkormo nonetheless drawled, pitching his last five words to uncannily mimic the cultured accents adopted by the Noldorin lords of Tirion. He seemed to be immune to his own growing temper as he reached over to tug on one of his braids (perfectly symmetrical and twined just as their father preferred his). “Actually _look_ , Curvo, and then tell me that it is her _brother_ she so caters to.”  
  
Curufinwë still did not understand, but he would not lower himself by asking that his brother explain himself further. Instead, he decided to do just that: he would keep his eyes open. He watched, and, clinically, he compiled his observations.  
  
Lelyanis may have accompanied her brother every morning, but she was rarely by his side for longer than a moment, Curufinwë noticed. Instead, she cordially greeted the other apprentices – there were four of them at this point – and politely wished them well on their efforts that day. Most mornings she brought warm pastries and fresh fruit, and her doing so made her a favourite with the other students. And yet . . .  
  
“Here, Curufinwë,” she greeted him with a smile that morning. It was a soft expression that placed dimples in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes - queerly so, he thought. “I noticed that you prefer blueberries,” she pitched her voice low as if to tempt him into accepting her gift, “I chose these ones especially for you.”  
  
In the back of his mind, he heard something that suspiciously sounded like Tyelkormo laughing, and, baffled, he could not think of an excuse to refuse her offering. For, it was true. Blueberries _were_ his favourite.  
  
They were his father's too, and Fëanáro only scowled for a moment less than usual when he took one of the pastries for himself before demanding that Lelyanis be on her way.  
  
The look she flashed over her shoulder before she departed was even more bemusing, Curufinwë thought. She did not meet any pair of eyes other than his, and, for a moment, he noticed the way the Treelight caught in her gaze before he dismissed her from his thoughts and turned his attention to his work for the day.  
  
And so, the pattern continued. She constantly brought gifts, just as she was constantly there to chatter in his ear about matters of little consequence - inquiring after his work and blithely gleaning what she could about his likes and dislikes from the scant threads of conversation she was able to wheedle in reply. He would only ever speak enough to be politely able to ask that she leave him be, and yet she always returned for more of his time, day in and day out.  
  
More befuddling was the way she attired herself for the soot and heat of Fëanáro's workrooms. She wore heavy falls of brightly colored, ornate fabrics, the same as she would for standing in his grandfather's throneroom. Her blue-black hair was ever adorned with silver nets, studded with gems, and her ears were always studded with rings from lobe to fey tip, just as she wore rings on mostly ever finger in the way of the Noldorin court. She held herself with a noblewoman's elegance and poise, different, he thought, from both the strong earthiness of his mother and the sleek, hunter's bow of coiled grace that was cousin Irissë – each of whom, admittedly, were his only close acquaintances amongst the fairer sex. She reminded him of the swans from Alqualondë, some distracted corner of his mind reflected, for there were often times when he found his attention stolen by the elegant spirals of silver coiled around her neck, the skin there smooth and pale and without blemish. He found his own work cast with a similar such elegance the day he mentally put that observation into words, and when he realized that the gems he filled with light perfectly matched the dark grey of her eyes . . .  
  
“You will dirty your gown here,” he found himself snapping, the day following that particular revelation. His blood felt hot and quick in his veins, and his fists clenched as if he stood before a foe in arms, rather than a woman wearing a spill of silk and gems.  
  
“I worry not for it,” Lelyanis waved a hand, the gesture as smooth as a breeze – as if the soot and metallic shavings surrounding her would be held to obedience beneath the indomitable arch of her brow. There was something teasing in the line of her mouth when she admitted, “Besides, what is the good of applying Aulë's grace if not to enjoy the fruits of such artistry? For enjoy them I do.”  
  
It took him a moment – a long moment – for him to realize that she fiddled with one ring in particular on her left hand. A twining, ivy-like piece with a silver-blue stone as its setting. It was, he dimly recalled (for he rarely looked back on the past when he instead saw what he would create next, ever grasping to be his sire's equal as he was), one of his earliest pieces, crafted when his father was just teaching him how to pour light into glass. Then, he had only seen how far he was from crafting the likes of the Silmarils, and yet . . .  
  
“Your father included this as a gift alongside one of my father's commissioned pieces,” she admitted. “Yet, I knew that it was not Fëanáro's hand who formed it. Even so, it remains one of my favourite pieces.” She looked at him from underneath draped lashes, as if trying to tell him something without words, and yet Curufinwë merely shrugged at her opinion of his work, unimpressed. He would not argue taste – it was either something one possessed or did not, and he did not much care to continue his conversation with her. For she was standing in his light, and he found himself taken by an idea as he looked away from the long, raven's wing spill of her hair. Already the schematics of its birth were fast consuming his mind, and he needed . . .  
  
Lelyanis watched him for a time, though he could not tell when she departed, taken by the flow of molten silver he was manipulating to run in spiraling, elegant rivers. Lost in his own mind, he gave up his senses of time and space as he instead concentrated on the heat of his fëa, rising up to spill though his pores in a tangible play of incandescent light. The great sea of fire within him, bequeathed by the inferno of his father's soul, bubbled up like molten earth tearing through cracks in the crust of Arda's mantle, and he let that heat consume him. He welcomed it, until -  
  
\- he frowned to see Tyelkormo standing over him, a hand pushing on his shoulder and his brow troubled as he entreated to break him from his haze, “It is already nearing dawn, Curvo. This is too late, even for you.”  
  
Curufinwë glanced, and saw that the shadows outside of the workshop were long, with only the faintest of Telperion's glow to be seen as she readied to give her dominant place in the night sky away to her sister. He blinked, feeling where his fëa had risen to paint his gaze with white fire. His eyes were strained as the fey glow retreated, the orbs left dry and burning as his vision returned to normal. There was seemingly a vice clamped about his head, leaving a violent throbbing behind in his temples. He flexed his hands, seeing where he had handled the still hot silver with his bare skin without burning - one with the fire and all but drunk on the consuming whirl of creation as he had been, just moments ago. He had seen his father taken in similar such trances more than once, and yet few had been the times he had been able to slip into such a state himself. And this . . .  
  
Tyelkormo regarded him with a curious eye before looking down to the intricate hairnet he had created – with soft blue-white gems, mimicking Varda's stars, held together by a firmament of impossibly delicate strands of twined silver. It was a master's work, the labor of weeks instead accomplished in a day's time, drenched with celestial brilliance as it was – the likes of which he had never been able to achieve before. It was beautiful, even his critical inner eye admitted, and he knew a moment's wonder for the creation of his hand. (For an even briefer moment, he wondered if his father, too, would know satisfaction for his work. Satisfaction . . . and thus pride in the hand who had birthed it.)  
  
It would - this he noticed more distantly, flatter _her_ exceedingly well, just as the gems also matched -  
  
“ - you, brother,” unerringly, Tyelkormo's voice punctuated his erstwhile thoughts, “are hopeless.” His grin was a trite too wide for Curufinwë's tastes, and, haughtily, he looked away from him.  
  
“I,” Curufinwë thrust his nose into the air to say, “have no idea what you mean.”  
  
“Of course not,” Tyelkormo patted his shoulder. “But you are a dead weight on your feet, Curvo. Come, you need to turn in for the night. You're already going to be impossible as a bear when you manage to pull yourself out of bed.”  
  
Unfortunately, Curufinwë could feel the truth of his brothers words – though he'd admit it to no one. He was already loath to notice where the outpouring of his fëa and his ceaseless hours of work had strained the weaker shell of his hröa to the point of debility and exhaustion. The admittance of his weakness was as to press down on a bruise, knowing that his father could – and had, all too often – gone for entire _weeks_ in similar such fey hazes. What Fëanáro could accomplish without blinking, he, meanwhile, struggled to . . .  
  
But that was a thought for the morrow – with the new day already breaking as it was. He had no room left for his conscious mind as he instead followed Tyelkormo's instructions for a quick meal and a fair amount of water before he was forced to bed. His sleep was sunk him into a deep, black oblivion as the dawn lighted the sky, punctuated only by the glittering of Varda's stars . . . and the matching brilliance of _her_ eyes, playing across his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Curufinwë/Curvo** : Curufin  
>  **Tyelkormo/Tyelko** : Celegorm  
>  **Fëanáro** : Fëanor  
>  **Irissë** : Aredhel  
>  **Fëa & Hröa**: 'Soul' and 'Body'


	96. "blooming you shall always be"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel/Celeborn, Celebrimbor & Elwing, Galadriel & Thranduil || Prompt: _Bloom, Blossom, & Grow_

**Bloom**  
  
The flight of the Sindar from Doriath had been the long, harrowing journey of a desperate, heartsick people in the dead of winter, with Galadriel's main host of survivors leaving Menegroth only by Maedhros' leave, heading to where she could feel her husband's presence deep in the wood, sheltering the last daughter of Thingol's line and the Silmaril she held. Along the way, they were joined by those who had heedlessly fled from the panic and violence of the Second Kinslaying, and together they followed the Sirion river south, pulled by some knowing in Galadriel's heart to align their steps with the river until it poured into the sea. On some days, as when her people left the comforting eaves of their trees behind for the grasslands beyond the Falls of Sirion, Galadriel was reminded of the Helcaraxë and its barren, indomitable glory. All too easily could she close her eyes and recall the way the light had warped over the plains of ice in spectacular displays of clear blue and deep violet, just as she could ever remember the ominous churning of the sea beneath their feat, sounding its warning dirge across the length of the frozen bridge.  
  
But Beleriand, for all the coldness of the season, was no match for that icy tundra – not truly. Eventually, when her people found a safe-haven in Nan-Tathren to rest before pushing onwards, the first signs of the still distant spring were waiting there to be found.  
  
She awakened early one morning to sit by the banks of the Sirion river where it was joined by the rushing waters of the Narog, the power of the current breaking through the ice shelving it as the two waterways coursed together and mingled. The willow trees on the shoreline were lazy, billowing specters in the hazy morning light, and their long fronds danced to a somber song that she was yet too weary to reach out and fully hear. Though, Galadriel somberly reflected as she took in the silence of the dawn and the soft murmur of the awakening camp, she had not truly slept the night before - with Elwing's fell dreams in the night quite keeping her from finding any rest of her own. She herself had no wish to see what dreams Irmo had to grant her, and so, she kept vigil over her new ward until the dawn before leaving Elwing in peace to follow the path the water took -  
  
\- there was a whisper of a step behind her, interrupting her thoughts. She tensed at the sound of another approaching her while her back was turned – an instinct she had foolishly allowed to slumber during her years of contentment, during her years of peace and _happiness_ within the Hidden Kingdom, and now -  
  
\- but she turned, and relaxed when she felt the tell-tale brush of her husband's presence against her spirit, returning her to her calm. Her spine lost its line of steel; her fingers relaxed themselves from their fists as she found where Celeborn, as ever, walked with a silent stride to where she sat by the river. There, held in his hand, she was curious to notice . . .  
  
. . . a small, cone shaped flower with a pretty, blue-violet bell and a bright flare of yellow-orange color where it stemmed. A crocus, Galadriel recognized, raising a pale brow as her husband came to a stop before her. No matter that his robes were plain for travel and his soft boots had seen better days, he bowed as regally as he would have in Thingol's court to say, “For you, my lady.”  
  
Galadriel only arched her brow higher, puzzled, until he explained, “They grow further downstream . . . the first blooms of the season.”  
  
He did not have to say anything more than that . . . she understood. Though she spoke nothing aloud in answer, she nonetheless moved the heavy mane of her hair over her shoulder in an invitation, beckoning. When her husband leaned down to delicately tuck the flower behind her ear, his touch was gentle as he traced the line of her neck, up and across her jaw to softly pass his thumb underneath the shape of her mouth. There was a playfulness in his gaze that she had not seen in much to long - since before Maedhros' first letter came to Dior, during the last days of summer, Galadriel knew without reflecting. She let herself fill on the look, she let it move her as the slumbering ground was even now touched by the approaching spring and thought:  
  
_South indeed._ There would they find more than the crocus flowers blooming anew.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Blossom**  
  
The new Queen of the Sindar was at once a woman timid and fierce, young in years but yet old in heart from the burden of her days . . . at least, she was to Celebrimbor's unfamiliar gaze, for little did he know Elwing Dioriel but from bits and pieces of gossip and news he'd heard escape from Sirion.  
  
His first time meeting the woman - still just a girl, really - he was called into Gil-galad's council to speak on some matter or the other when the Sindar joined the High-king on the Isle of Balar to discuss relations between their peoples. His mouth had spoken, but his eyes had been quick to occupy his mind as he found the pale creature with night-dark hair sitting at Gil-galad's right hand – the shade there darker than any of the Noldor heads he knew, even his own, as if the night itself had been arraigned about her head and the twilight netted in her eyes . . . in Lúthien's eyes, he recognized. Though she held her head up high in an imitation of Thingol, she seemed nearly weighed down by the mantle of her crown, and the gaze she turned on him looked to be caught between a rabbit's need to run and the unflinching, warning might of a wolf at moon-rise. As with most of the Sindar, she held a nearly tangible feeling of _fey_ about her being, for less wise and more faerie-hearted were their cousins from the forests, who had never seen the light of the Trees - and neither wished to - Celebrimbor thought.  
  
He finished speaking, yet even when he did so, her eyes followed him with a haunting combination of repressed fear and carefully leashed loathing. He did not need to ponder overly much to discern why she felt as such. His kin – though they were kin of his no longer, by his own decree, long ago – had done her and hers a great evil. Taking her father . . . her mother . . . her brothers . . . all in one fell stroke . . . he could not comprehend such a loss, such a blow survived by so young a spirit as hers had been.  
  
As ever, he flinched to imagine his uncles capable of such a great evil . . . for Celegorm, who had always been inclined to lusty laughter and once dubbed his favorite for the love he bore his father . . . and Caranthir, with his dark, cutting tongue ever covering his warmth and generosity . . . and Maglor, who was always ready with a song, ever ready to commune with _the_ Song as his spirit was . . . Maedhros, whom he had looked up to as if he were Ainu-blooded, nearly as much as he had his own father . . . his _father_ . . . It was a thought he could not quite complete within his mind, even well knowing the unthinkable actions their Oath was able to inspire if they believed doing as such could reclaim what was _theirs_. For three such flames to just flicker and disappear for such a fruitless quest . . . and to take with them so many of Thingol's folk . . .  
  
It was shame that had him wishing to hang his head before Elwing's accusing gaze, but it was the knowledge that he had long distanced his feet from his family's path that had him looking up and meeting the young queen's eyes without flinching. After a long, poignant moment of holding her gaze, she looked away. She did not look his way again.  
  
It was not until the next time they met, at the winter solstice – a painful time of year for her folk, where they traded gifts and smiled and celebrated as they had for centuries, but yet hung their heads and remembered their lost home, with each one of the Sindar taking their time amongst the birch-wood to sing to the losses the trees knew in far-off eaves. It was a day of remembrance and sorrow, but filled with the joyful determination of a people ready to live life anew. And so, it was with that last thought in mind that he left Gil-galad's side to approach the Sindarin queen. She was at first clearly wary of his doing so, with the yellow-haired boy by her side – Idril's son, Celebrimbor recognized – stepping forward as if to stop his progress before Elwing held a hand up, allowing him near.  
  
“Fëanorian,” was her only greeting. She did not incline her head, and her eyes were absent of any welcome – void of any warmth. In the low, musical lilt of her voice, Celebrimbor could hear an echo of Lúthien, touched by something deeper, something a part of him imagined was all Thingol reaching out to grant the soul of his heir his strength and indomitable will.  
  
He did not speak to her greeting - to her accusation, really – knowing that any words he gave to correct her would be but little heard, and even less appreciated. Instead, he reached into his robes to withdraw the gift he had crafted for her. He had decided against a ware made of metal or stone, for he knew that she would little welcome anything forged by his hand - and, besides the Silmaril, the Sindar had not of the Noldorin appreciation for beautiful things crafted in the ways of Aulë, at that. Instead . . .  
  
Elwing took the small, carefully wrapped package from him with after a moment's hesitation. Her eyes did not leave his own as she drew the string binding the box away, and revealed within . . .  
  
A flower, a perfect bloom of niphredil that pulsed with a pale glow of white life from within. He had infused the glass cased petals the same as he would fill an empty gem with light, granting it an immortality, of sorts, in a living, solemn reminder of what was lost from Doriath. It was a small token, not nearly equal to the depths of his regret and sorrow, and yet . . .  
  
“This is not nearly enough to replace what you have lost. Yet, but it is a little good that I may give you from my hand,” Celebrimbor found himself drawing his words deep from the well of his spirit, trying to convey that for which there was no speech . . . no apology that could ever be spoken . . . not truly.  
  
Elwing bowed her head, and though he saw her take in a deep breath, no tears touched her eyes. She refused to allow herself such a mourning in front of him. Instead, she touched a careful hand to the delicate white petals and said only, “I thank you, Master-smith.” She would offer no further benediction than that.  
  
Slowly, she closed the flower away, and turned to leave before he could attempt his words again. Perhaps, besides the small, blooming thing she held in the palm of her hand, there was truly nothing more to say.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
**Grow**  
  
He could not coax Lúthien's niphredil to grow in the Havens of Sirion.  
  
Truly, Thranduil would not admit his attempting to do so to any who asked him. The seeds they had left to plant were precious and few, and he had already wasted too many in an attempt to coax into being that which was clearly not meant to be. Sirion was too warm, too open to the sun through the thin canopy, no matter how deep into the birch-wood he went. There was not of the long shadows cast by the ancient beech trees of Doriath; there was not the memory of starlight to be found in this forest. Too heavy did the sea hang in the air, ever carrying the scent of salt, and the soil was too loose with sand to aid the growth of such a bloom.  
  
Still he tried, with a fey stubbornness too deeply engrained in his soul to allow him to concede defeat so easily. He persisted, season in and season out, planting the seeds in the deepest shade of the wood and bowing his head, singing the coaxing songs of Yavanna and praying that she turn her eye and bless his efforts. Yet, no matter how he attempted to do so, his efforts were fruitless. He could not mark their new home with Lúthien's memory, no matter how he tried.  
  
One day, he was sitting before the ground that he had watered, even while knowing that the seeds slept, unmoving in their grave of soil. He felt not a spark of new life from the ground, and the birch tree he had so carefully chosen swayed sadly in the sea-wind overhead, whispering of the slumbering little ones she had promised to watch for him. He placed his hand to the bark, acknowledging the old trees efforts and sorrowfully confessing that, perhaps, what he was attempting was simply not meant to be. With Thingol so cruelly slain and Melian sadly departed . . . their daughter having long left the circles of the world behind to follow her husband into the ever-sleep of mortal men . . . a little bit of Middle-earth had died the day Lúthien breathed her last, and he could not return a bit of her grace to the haven her people had since claimed.  
  
He sighed, and was preparing to stand and depart when a low, grave voice spoke behind him, “The niphredil have not bloomed their last on these shores, Oropherion; this I have foreseen.”  
  
Sometimes, the irony of the last of Melian's ways being preserved in Galadriel's Noldorin soul was not lost on Thranduil, and he had learned to trust her strange sense of knowing well. Better, however, did he think of her as Olwë's granddaughter, and thus kin to Thingol and him, rather than the granddaughter of Finwë. It made things easier between them, at times.  
  
Their friendship had been easier between them before Doriath's fall, Thranduil nonetheless confessed, deep within his mind. Then, she was simply Melian's honored apprentice . . . Lúthien's dear friend . . . Celeborn's beloved wife – truly, for bringing his friend and kinsman such happiness, Thranduil too had long accepted the daughter of Finarfin, long before most of the Grey-folk had. And yet, lately . . .  
  
But he swallowed, and chastised himself for his foolishness. Galadriel had lost as much as her adopted people had when the Fëanorians attacked, and once again had she been forced to choose the blood of her mother over the blood of her father. She deserved no ill will on his part, and even the unwanted flicker of such a feeling shamed him. So, he breathed in deep with his hurt and his pain, and let it go with his exhale.  
  
“Have you seen them bloom here?” Thranduil asked, allowing curiosity to shape his voice, rather than any darker an emotion. “Or are my efforts in vain?”  
  
“No,” Galadriel's voice was soft in reply. “This land is not meant for Doriath's memory, and we are not truly succored here; in this place we are meant only to survive until the Shadow in the North retreats. Yet . . . someday, when we return to the forests, I have seen . . .”  
  
Her eyes were blurry, for a moment gazing beyond him and far away. Thranduil was silent, and allowed her her visions without interrupting. She would speak when it was necessary, and he was patient . . . he could wait. Beyond them in the wood, he could hear Celeborn laughing with Elwing's twin sons – introducing the young ones to the forests and teaching them to commune with the souls of the trees, just as their forefathers had at the wakening of the world. Elrond, Thranduil thought with a surge of fond amusement, dedicated himself better to such a learning than Elros, who was even now asking to return to the sea-shore - much as Eärendil had as a child whenever Elwing tried to explain the bond she held with the trees.  
  
And, at last, Galadriel caught his gaze to say, “She is not gone from this land, dear one, not truly . . . and never shall she be.”  
  
Thranduil simply nodded as Galadriel knelt down and covered his hand with her own upon the soil. Her eyes were deep and wise, full of shared sorrow and empathy. So, he drew in a deep breath, resolving to leave his pain and his mourning in the ground with the slumbering seeds. Then, at length he rose to join his friends in introducing Lúthien's heirs to the wood, determined that their ways . . . and their fallen people . . . were remembered for another generation more.


End file.
